Taking Chances - A Novel of the Discworld
by SilverShadow44
Summary: Lord Vetinari is dead - or is he? Even he, Commander Vimes and the Wizards of Unseen University aren't sure. But in Ankh-Morpork an ambitious would-be conqueror is eager to take his place, and elsewhere the Auditors of Reality are hatching a sinister plan . . . .
1. The Patrician, Interrupted

**TaKING CHANCES**

 **A Novel Of discworld**

 _Dedicated with love to the memory of Sir Terry Pratchett,_

 _A global and discal treasure_

 **Author's Note:**

I began writing this work, which is set in between _Raising Steam_ and _The Shepherd's Crown,_ in November of 2014 when Sir Terry Pratchett was still alive. In that spirit, I leave the original disclaimer which I wrote for it here.

 **DISCLAIMER:**

I do not own the rights to the Discworld setting or any of its characters.

They are the wonderful creations and intellectual property of Sir Terry Pratchett,

who has given so much joy to so many for so long through his writing.

I can only hope that his sense of humor extends to fanfiction as it does to everything

else! Thank you, Sir Terry, for the pleasure you and your books have given me!

Reality is never tidy.

It tries sometimes, it really does. Here and there bits of an infinite multiverse will line up for a moment in seemingly perfect harmony. The stars dance around one another in precision and rhythm, light is light and dark is, well, very, VERY dark. Everything looks as though it has its place, and for that moment beings who _like_ this sort of affair will be content. But it never lasts. Sooner or later, Reality reveals itself for the disorderly jumble that it is. Constellations, so neat and exact when looked at from one perspective, turn out to be a mess of heavenly bodies barely on speaking terms with each other when seen from another angle. Untidiness, unpredictability creep in, like the scum and grit that forms on the underside of the soap dish. Worst of all, from certain points of view, Life happens. And Life is the least tidy, least orderly, least _understandable_ thing of all . . . . It can even take the form of a giant turtle with four elephants and an entire world mounted on its back, traveling through space.

Something ought to be done about that. That's what certain entities tell themselves.

But where there is Life, there is also Death . . . .

YOU DO NOT SEEM SURPRISED.

"No." Havelock Vetinari, or what was left of him, did not even raise an eyebrow as he turned from the sight of his fallen body where it lay on the floor of the Oblong Office to face the tall, skeletal cloaked figure that had materialized beside him. "Disappointed that someone has succeeded, perhaps. But I've been expecting it, sooner or later."

AH. ANTICIPATION. Death said. THAT MUST BE IT. MOST PEOPLE IN THIS SITUATION DO NOT EXPECT TO BE MURDERED.

"Most people aren't politicians, fortunately," Vetinari sighed. He glanced back again at himself, at the mug on his desk, and at the pencil still clutched in his hand. "I don't suppose I could finish the crossword puzzle at least?"

NO.

There were no signs of violence anywhere in the room. Vetinari stared again at his body, not seeing any rise or fall of the chest that would indicate breathing. Time itself appeared to be standing still. Vetinari's loyal secretary Rufus Drumknott posed like a statue, not moving either but frozen in the moment, eyes caught in the act of studying some doubtlessly important piece of paperwork that he had in his hand, oblivious to the fact that his employer was no longer with him in every sense of the word.

"Poison, I presume?"

Death nodded and gestured with his scythe for Vetinari to follow him across the room into a dark, star-filled space as the Oblong Office, Drumknott and his body began to fade from his view.

"Could you at least tell me the name of the person who inhumed me?"

I COULD. BUT IT IS NOT MY PLACE TO DO SO.

"Nor your intention?"

NO.

At first the dark, starry plain they were now standing in appeared to stretch on forever without features or landmarks. But as Vetinari's eyes adjusted – and he had to assume he still had eyes to adjust, or at least something like them – he could make out the shape of an enormous black and grey mansion. It was done up in the Deranged Lord Harmoni-era architectural style with more gables, crenellations, towers and gingerbread woodwork than any sane person would have devised. They walked toward it, and Vetinari saw a sundial with no sun or shadow showing, a horse stable, small shacks nearby, and an unliving, undying lawn and trees surrounding the great house. Death himself might not have surprised Vetinari, but this was not the vision of the afterlife he had been expecting. And the silence in this place was so . . . silent. Quieter than the merest whisper. The fabled quietness of the grave? For anyone accustomed to the usual bustle, cart traffic, shouts, animal noises and the occasional gurgle and scream of the city of Ankh-Morpork, the lack of din was the hardest thing of all to accept.

"You aren't much for words, are you?" Vetinari asked Death, if only to hear the sound of his own voice.

The Grim Reaper looked down at him and even though Death's face was (as usual) a skeletal mask of horror, it somehow managed to convey to him a hurt expression.

I LIKE TO THINK I AM QUITE A GOOD CONVERSATIONALIST. I SPEAK EVERY LANGUAGE KNOWN TO MAN, AND MANY THAT ARE KNOWN TO OTHER CREATURES. SOONER OR LATER I GET TO MEET EVERYBODY.

"Ah, well you wouldn't happen to know an 11-letter word for 'aiming toward a definite point of view,' would you?"

TENDENTIOUS. 7 DOWN, WASN'T IT?

SQUEAK.

OH BUGGER.

Death came to a halt as a miniature version of himself with a miniature scythe and a rodent-like snout of a skull tugged at his black robe.

EXCUSE ME. Death shrugged to Vetinari before stepping away a short distance to have a word with this much smaller Death. In the stillness of the dark plain, Vetinari could hear every word of their conversation, even if some of it sounded only like somber mouse chirps to him.

SQUEAK!

WELL SHOW HER WHAT'S IN THE BOX I HAD YOU FETCH FROM THAT NEW STORE IN QUIRM AND TELL HER I WILL BE IN TO SPEAK WITH HER SHORTLY.

SQUEAK.

Again, Vetinari had the impression of something other than a poker face coming across Death's skull – this time it was a trace of suspicion as Death brought the handle end of the scythe down to pin the hem of the look-alike's robe to the ground.

THERE IS SOMETHING IN THE BOX, ISN'T THERE? YOU DIDN'T EAT THEM ALL AND LEAVE THE WRAPPERS, DID YOU? OR JUST THE NOUGAT? YOU KNOW HOW SHE FEELS ABOUT NOUGAT.

SQUEAK!

The smaller Death crossed its arms, scythe and all, and tapped its skeletal paw-like foot. Vetinari noticed that it had a skeletal tail sticking out of its robe, which it was tapping as well. As soon as the larger Death lifted his scythe handle, the smaller one stomped off toward the dark mansion.

MY ASSISTANT. Death explained as he returned to where Vetinari had been left standing. ONE OF THEM, ANYWAY.

"I didn't know Death had any assistants."

OH, YES. YOU'LL LIKE ALBERT. YOU TWO WILL BE MEETING SHORTLY.

"And Albert is a female who doesn't like nougat?" Vetinari ventured. He didn't see the point in not putting at least a few cards on the table now that the worst had happened.

NO. ALBERT MALICH IS A HE, AND HE WILL EAT ALMOST ANYTHING. Death gestured and they began walking toward the House again. THE DEATH OF RATS IS ATTENDING TO MY GRANDDAUGHTER. YOU WILL BE MEETING HER ALSO. BUT FIRST, YOU AND I HAVE SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT.

Vetinari prided himself on being the master of the bland, blank expression, but some circumstances made this office more difficult than others.

"Albert Malich – the wizard?"

YES. THE FOUNDER OF UNSEEN UNIVERSITY. HE WORKS FOR ME AS A BUTLER OF SORTS.

Alberto Malich the Wise had also been dead for a very, very long time, at least according to the official histories found in the Unseen University Library. Supposedly in the final days of Master Malich's life, Vetinari recalled from school history lessons, the elderly wizard had performed the dread Rite of Ashkente backwards in a quest to achieve immortality. Since nothing had been found of him afterward but a smoking pile of ashes and his wizard's hat, it was assumed that the effort had not succeeded and that performing the Rite of Ashkente for summoning Death backwards, forwards, or indeed any way at all, came under the heading of Not A Good Idea.1 Yet here Albert Malich apparently was, wherever here might be. As for Death having a granddaughter, Vetinari could not remember reading or hearing any mention of her at all. While he tried to rack his memory for details, he became aware of the disquieting sensation of his memory trying to rack him back. There were fuzzy bits in it which shouldn't be there. Vetinari didn't like fuzzy bits, and some of these were recent.

YOUR MIND HAS BEEN TAMPERED WITH. Death commented. BUT NOW THAT YOU ARE HERE, YOU ARE FREE OF THEIR INFLUENCE. FOR THE PRESENT AT LEAST.

"Whose influence am I free of? Is that why I've been brought here?" Vetinari had no trouble recalling the last sight of his mortal body. His present condition had seemed like such a certain thing. And yet . . . . "Am I dead or not?"

YES.

"Well, which?"

YOU ARE DEAD. OR NOT. AT THE MOMENT YOU ARE MOSTLY DEAD.

"But mostly dead is not the same thing as completely dead." Vetinari raised an eyebrow, or felt like he had. "This discussion you wanted to have with me, it wouldn't happen to be about angels, would it?"

ANGELS? NO. Death shook his head. They had arrived at the entrance to the house, which Vetinari now could see was more of a HOUSE. As Death opened the front door, its interior appeared to stretch on to forever, just as the starry plain outside did. All in all, there was a lot of forever to be had in the afterlife. Vetinari had no choice but to follow his host if he didn't want to get lost in it. IT WILL BE EASIER FOR YOU TO UNDERSTAND ONCE I HAVE SHOWED YOU THE TIMER.

They traversed a long hallway before arriving at an arch that led to an even longer hall, a vast chamber lined with ladders and shelves bearing an infinity of hourglasses, each with its own stream of sand – or streams. Here and there along the shelves was a timer that stood out from the rest. Some were bigger than others, some shinier, and one or two that Vetinari spotted were twisty, contorted knots of glasswork in which the sand seemed to be flowing every which way at once. Each had a name on it, but the names were too blurry for him to read, as if the writing on the label shimmered and shimmied of its own accord. Death moved to one particular shelf and one particular timer, lifted it in his skeletal hand and held it out to his guest.

"Havelock Vetinari," Vetinari read off the label on the timer. The words on this one did not move. Neither did the sand within, which was of two different colors. A stream of bright blue sand intertwined with a stream of ebony black sand in equal amounts, but the streams were as frozen as Drumknott and his body had been to him. "Time does not pass here?"

IT DOES AND IT DOESN'T. Death waved the scythe and Vetinari noticed that the sand in the other hourglasses on the shelves flowed at varying speeds and directions, but all had some form of motion going on inside. Only his timer did not.

"My Aunt always said I was special."

YES. AND NOW I WOULD LIKE TO DISCUSS SOMETHING WITH YOU. IT INVOLVES THE MATTER OF PROBABILITY. AND CATS . . . .

[* * * *]

1 Of course, this could be said of a great many things accomplished by the wizards of Unseen University, particularly the invention of indestructible toilet paper which led to the Battle of the Water Loo, the first (and last) Iron Kite Festival, construction of the Leaning Tower of Jelly, and anything at all designed by Bergholt Stuttley Johnson, better known as 'Bloody Stupid Johnson for a reason. But where would progress be without those daring thinkers who looked practicality in the face and then tried to win a staring contest with it?


	2. Alive or Dead

"Bloody hell."

His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh and Commander of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch thought he had seen everything. He'd investigated more crime scenes in thirty plus years than he could count. He'd journeyed to strange and exotic lands and nearly been killed in them. He'd battled werewolves barehanded – bare everything – and won. He'd travelled back in time, taught his teenage self a thing or two about being a good copper and returned to the present after changing and preserving the course of history. He'd foiled plots by dark dwarves, freed goblins from slavers and been given the gift of night sight by an ancient supernatural entity. And then there were his proudest accomplishments of all – becoming a husband to the most wonderful woman in all of creation and a father to the most wonderful boy in all of creation. But none of that experience could help him right now.

"So has he been murdered or not?"

"Difficult to say, Sir," Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom bagged another piece of potential evidence and labeled it. "There's definitely something in the coffee mug and on his lips other than coffee. It could be the cause of death, but only if he turns out to be dead."

And that was the stick of the thing, wasn't it just?

Lord Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, lay sprawled on the rug of the Oblong Office not breathing, not displaying any signs of life, fair enough. But the body wasn't showing any of the usual features of death either. No rigor mortis, no change in temperature, no pooling of blood or signs of decay. Even the undeads who now made up a small but significant portion of the city's population usually had to go through one stage or another on their way to the next. Despite the occasional rumor that ran through the city, Vimes didn't believe for one minute that Lord Vetinari was a vampire.

Damn and blast! The man had figured out a way to annoy Vimes without even being alive!

"Are we sure it _is_ his body and not just some clever look-alike?" Vimes snorted in the direction of someone who ought to be able to answer that question.

"Very sure." Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University and most widely respected wizard on the Disc nodded. "The karmic signature is his, without a doubt. This is Havelock Vetinari."

"But you can't tell me if he's alive or dead?"

The City Watch's Igor, Igor, the other half of its forensic investigation team, had already been escorted out of the Palace at Drumknott's insistence for suggesting several novel – and perhaps permanent – methods for testing the Patrician's body to gain an answer. In Vimes' opinion, trusting a wizard's magical methods was no less precarious, but Drumknott had summoned the Archchancellor at the same time as the City Watch when he'd made his shocking discovery. And the result? Still no answers.

"The situation is unique," Ridcully sighed. "Unprecedented, even. I have heard of the condition known as 'stasis', but I have never seen it demonstrated thus on a person before, living or dead."

"You're not helping me any."

"You're not the one who needs help here, Your Grace." The Archchancellor leaned down and placed a hand on the Patrician's head. "Or at least not the only one. We may all be needing assistance soon."

"Hmm? How so? This isn't capable of spreading, is it?"

"Until we can determine the cause, we have no way of knowing that. But," the wizard tugged at his beard, "if Havelock Vetinari is _not_ among the living any longer, that poses a problem, doesn't it? Who is in charge of the city?"1

"It hasn't been established that he's not still alive and that this isn't temporary," Vimes rumbled, "so if you're asking me, he's still the guy, at least until the Guilds decide otherwise." Which brought up another nasty possibility – did the Guild leaders know about this yet? Did any of them have eyes and ears in the Palace, and if so who? How many people had Drumknott told? The Watch needed to know before things got out of hand. Half of Vimes' best officers were on assignment outside the city gates, spread from Uberwald to Quirm to the Sto Plains on special details and diplomatic missions. Too much of Ankh-Morpork's fortunes had been riding on shaky foreign relations lately. Vimes didn't mind having resources he could call on in the various kingdoms, queendoms and republics of the Disc, but right now the Watch was spread too damn thin. Even if he made the call to get some of those officers back, their return would take time and the railway bridges destroyed by the grags hadn't been fully rebuilt yet.

Time – how much time did they all have?

[* * * *]

1 By which, of course, the Archchancellor means the _non-magical_ people, parts and aspects of Ankh-Morpork since the Wizards of Unseen University are perfectly aware of who is in charge of the magical bits as defined by those same Wizards. Mustrum Ridcully has proved remarkably effective at reminding the Wizards of Unseen University just who is in charge of _them_!


	3. Of Cats and Conundrums

"So if I am understanding you correctly," Vetinari turned his personal lifetimer around in his hands, "according to this Wizard Schrodinger, it is possible for someone or something to be both alive and dead at the same time and he tried to prove it using a cat?"

ATTEMPTED, YES. Death took the hourglass back from Vetinari and replaced it on the shelf. I DON'T APPROVE OF CRUELTY TO CATS. I AM RATHER FOND OF CATS. THE CAT DIDN'T APPROVE OF THE EXPERIMENT EITHER.

"And the wizard didn't prove his theory?"

HE PROVED THAT CATS DON'T LIKE TO BE PUT IN BOXES.

"What happened to the cat?"

THE CAT PROVED TO THE WIZARD THAT IT IS POSSIBLE FOR A HUMAN TO BE HALF ALIVE AND HALF DEAD AT THE SAME TIME. I BELIEVE IT HAS FOUND A BETTER SITUATION FOR ITSELF AT MRS. CAKE'S BOARDING HOUSE.

"I, on the other hand, appear to be both alive and dead according to you."

YES, ALTHOUGH YOU ARE MOSTLY DEAD.

"At the moment."

AT THE MOMENT.

"That would seem to imply I could also go back to being mostly alive. Or all alive?"

IF CIRCUMSTANCES PERMITTED. THAT IS THE OTHER MATTER I WISHED TO SPEAK TO YOU ABOUT.

"Ah." So that was it. Vetinari knew this game. It all came down to angels after all – or angles. "You want something from me, I take it."

I CANNOT CREATE THE CIRCUMSTANCES THAT WOULD PERMIT YOU TO RETURN TO YOUR LIFE. ONLY YOU CAN DO THAT.

"And you, naturally, are about to tell me how to do it."

FIRST I NEED TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING, IF YOU ARE WILLING. YOU NEED TO BE ABLE TO SEE THIS ROOM AS I SEE IT. Death placed a bony hand just above Vetinari's shoulder. I CAN HELP YOU TO DO THIS, BUT IT WILL NOT BE PLEASANT FOR YOU.

"Many of the things I have to deal with are unpleasant. By all means, do what you must. Show me what you must."

Death's hand came down on his shoulder, and Vetinari felt a chill run through him such as he had never known before. The shelves, the hourglasses – all of it – became surrounded by a golden glow, and a duplicate image of the chamber superimposed itself over everything. Now Vetinari could read the writing on the lifetimers, names, an endless stream of names . . . .

OBSERVE THE SAND IN THE TIMERS – ALL OF THEM.

It was dizzying, too much for his mind to take in, row upon row of lives stretching out toward infinity. He wanted to shrug off Death's hand, make the vision stop. Then he saw it. The original image of the room, underneath, showed the timers all as he had seen them before, with the varying amounts of sand remaining in the upper and lower parts, the streams flowing at different rates of speed . . . . but not in the new image that had superimposed itself. The glowing, golden image hovering in the foreground showed something far more terrible. All of the lifetimers he could see – all of them – surrounded in that golden glow were nearly at their end, the sands in every single timer almost run out.

NOW DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

"Everyone is . . . dying."

EVERYONE IS ALWAYS DYING. BUT THEY SHOULD NOT ALL DIE AT THE SAME TIME. THE HOURGLASSES SHOULD NOT ALL BE SO NEAR THEIR END. YET THEY ARE BEING TAMPERED WITH. AS YOU HAVE BEEN TAMPERED WITH. AS MANY THINGS HAVE BEEN TAMPERED WITH. A note of anger had crept into Death's deep, still voice. YOU ARE WONDERING IF THIS IS A VISION OF WHAT WILL BE, OR WHAT MAY OR MAY NOT BE. I CANNOT DETERMINE THAT. BUT YOU . . . . Death's hand wrenched Vetinari's gaze around to where his lifetimer had been placed back on the shelf. Now it appeared blurry and imprecise. Vetinari had a single moment to observe the blur before Death removed his bony grip and the golden glow, the vision faded. YOU. YOU MAY DETERMINE THAT.

Vetinari rubbed his eyes and realized yes, he still had them, they were real, they felt real, and rather sore. He looked at the room again. No more double image. The hourglasses were 'normal' again, running at different speeds, full of different amounts of sand.

"But it was real, wasn't it . . . ." Vetinari mumbled, a statement, not a question.

IT COULD BE REAL. I WOULD PREFER THAT IT NOT BECOME REAL.

"Well, it would certainly keep you busy . . . ." Vetinari chuckled and crumpled to his knees, which he also still had and which had suddenly gone weak. _I am hysterical_ , he thought, momentarily outraged at himself, _and I am_ never _hysterical. I have never been hysterical in my entire . . . . oh, yes, that's right . . . ._

I WARNED YOU THAT IT WOULD BE UNPLEASANT. Death stood aside and waited until Vetinari had brought his emotions back under control. WOULD YOU LIKE A HAND UP?

"Ah . . . no . . . no thank you. I think I would prefer to get up under my own power." Vetinari reached around and realized he did not have his customary cane with him. "Just give me a moment. I have a bit of a game leg, you see."

NOT HERE. THAT IS YOUR OTHER LEG.

"Eh?" Vetinari rose and found that it did not require as much effort as usual. The lingering lameness that he'd felt as a result of being shot by a gonne years ago had disappeared. He had a body here, eyes, eyebrows, legs – he was still Havelock Vetinari. But the familiar aches and pains he'd been accustomed to were gone. Even the soreness his eyes had felt after receiving Death's vision had faded as quickly as it came on. He was . . . well? He looked at his lifetimer again, not to see the sands inside it, but to catch his reflection in the glass. The image that stared back at him was the same as the one he saw in any mirror back at the Palace, the dark hair, neat goatee beard and mustache. He still looked like himself. He raised an eyebrow at himself and was adequately satisfied with the result. "So. I appear to still be me, but with improvements."

YOU HAVE A PHYSICAL PRESENCE HERE. YOU ARE NOT A GHOST. NOR ARE YOU COMPLETELY DEAD YET.

"And the other hourglasses are not nearly run out yet. Matters can still be fixed, so we had best get about fixing them." Vetinari adjusted his collar and turned from his reflection to face Death once more.

YOU ARE TAKING ALL OF THIS BETTER THAN I WOULD HAVE THOUGHT.

"Am I? I am barely in a state I would consider functional under normal circumstances. But as you say, these are not normal circumstances, so we must adapt and shift the best we can. We both have a problem and where there are problems there are solutions. That is why you are showing me these things – so I can be part of the solution."

Death nodded.

I BELIEVE YOU ARE READY TO MEET THE OTHERS.

"More mostly dead people?"

NOT EXACTLY, ALTHOUGH I SUPPOSE ALBERT QUALIFIES. YOU ARE SOMEWHAT UNIQUE.

"Always."

Vetinari followed Death back out of the hall of lifetimers and headed toward yet another room, from which he could hear voices and the sound of somber rodent squeaks coming.

I DO NOT EXPECT YOU TO FIND A SOLUTION TO OUR MUTUAL PROBLEM ON YOUR OWN. I AM NOT UNREASONABLE, WHATEVER MY GRANDDAUGHTER MAY THINK OF ME. I HOPE YOU CAN WORK WELL IN A GROUP.

Death and Vetinari left the blackness of the long corridor and entered another chamber that was well lit, colorful and, compared to the rest of the HOUSE downright livable, a library filled with brightly bound books and comfortable overstuffed leather chairs arranged in a half circle around a crackling fireplace.

Crouched in front of the fire an elderly man with a drippy red nose was roasting a pan of chestnuts. Standing not far from him, engaged in pleasant conversation, were two men Vetinari did not know personally but recognized nevertheless. One was the milkman who delivered fresh dairy products to the Palace every morning, the other a wizened, balding and thin man in a tattered, ratty grey robe held together with a stained piece of string. The latter man wore sandals on bare, callused, wrinkly feet, had a cigarette of dubious appearance half-clutched in one corner of his mouth, and kept a broad-headed broom in the crook of one arm. On the other side of the library, a striking young woman with black-streaked white hair gestured in a state of earnest argument with Death's rodential replica. She was the first to notice Vetinari and Death's arrival.

" _Now_ who are you dragging into this, Grandfath-" She broke off the rest of her question and turned a shade paler as she saw Vetinari. "Oh, god."

"I hope not," Vetinari said with a smile. "Being Patrician is quite difficult enough."

The milkman, his tattered companion, and the elderly roaster of chestnuts all looked in their direction, and the tattered man with the broom stubbed out his cigarette in one quick motion and strode over to greet Vetinari with a twinkling grin.

"In that case, Your Lordship, you should be very relieved to learn that our task is a simple one. All we have to do is save the world!"

[-]

 _HE is interfering._

 _What of it? WE are interfering. He can do nothing to Us._

 _The Others thought that, and they failed._

 _WE are not the Others. WE will not fail. His attempts to stop Us will be futile._

 _WE do not doubt?_

 _No, WE do not._

[* * * *]


	4. A Dollar for your Thoughts

"Oh, dear. Rough day on the job?" Lady Sybil Ramkin Vimes set aside the flame retardant cowl and gloves she wore while feeding her swamp dragons and mucking out their pens each afternoon.

"Nnnrrmmphhh."

"Now, Sam, don't growl! I know that look, and whatever the matter is, I'm sure you will come out on top of it." She gave her husband an affectionate peck on the cheek and helped Vimes remove his armored breastplate and helmet. "Oh, I had a pleasant visit from Lettice Gunthroe this morning . . . ."

"Nrrrahhnnn."

"She and Rosie just got in the most darling pair of little Curly-Maned Slotties, and Lettice considers one of them to have definite championship prospects . . . ."

"Rrrrmmmpphh."

Lady Sybil took a deep breath, rolled up the thick, flame-repelling sleeves of her smock and grabbed her husband by both shoulders.

"Samuel Vimes! I am doing my best to distract you with small talk from something that is obviously bothering you, and you are not even having the husbandly decency to be distracted!"

"Hmm? Uh, sorry, dearest." Vimes allowed his gaze to become focused and they had a lot to focus on. Sybil's smock was of the tight, form-fitting kind, and the sight of her chest heaving in indignation was enough to distract almost any man who wasn't dead, and possibly a few who were. "You were saying . . . ?"

"That's better!" Sybil went from gripping Vimes' shoulders to rubbing them. "Oh, my! You are tense this evening! Has Havelock been giving you a bothersome case again?"

Vimes frowned. He'd known he was going to have to tell her, but he hadn't been looking forward to it.

"Your friend Havelock _is_ my bothersome case." He took her hands in his and pressed his face against one of them. "I'm not quite sure how to tell you this, and you're not to repeat it to _anyone_ , but he might be sort of dead."

Sybil's eyes widened, and only hundreds of years of Ramkin breeding and rearing in the Stiff Upper Lip department kept her jaw from dropping in shock.

"What exactly do you mean, _sort of_ dead? Is he dead or not?"

"Um, yes." Not relinquishing his grip on her hands, he maneuvered them both through a door and into the smallest parlor of their Scoone Avenue mansion. He sat her down on the couch inside, closed the door to the room and settled down beside her with a groan.

"It's like this . . . ."

Someone you can trust is the truest blessing, Vimes knew, and he trusted Sybil more than he trusted the badge he carried, and that badge was practically his _soul_. He told her everything, from the urgent morning summons from Drumknott, the discovery of Vetinari's unbreathing, possibly poisoned body, the confusion, the uncertainties, and hovering above it all, the inability to figure out what might happen next. Sybil listened to it all with calm Ramkin resolve.

"And he's been taken to the University?"

"Hmph, yeah." _That_ development had been Drumknott's preference, not Vimes's, but Vimes could see the reasoning behind it. The Palace wasn't safe, for all its guards and clerks. _Someone_ had slipped something into Vetinari's mug, and the Watch still didn't know who. Captain Angua, the Watch's own werewolf, had examined the Oblong Office to sniff out any possible clues that the forensic team might miss, and had come up with nothing. Many individuals came and went from that place, but the most recent scents were only of Drumknott and the Patrician himself. Vimes wasn't about to suspect Drumknott for the time being. The entire Palace cook staff and wait staff would have to be interviewed, while allowing as little information about the Patrician's condition to slip out to the public as possible.

"A riot is the very least of it, if word gets around" Vimes muttered. "The Guild leaders'll do their worst, not that half of them haven't been trying that for years. It won't matter whether Vetinari is dead or not – they'll bury him as is and elevate the gods know what to serve in his place. Probably bury Drumknott too for good measure. I've never liked Vetinari, y'know, but of all the madmen and thugs we've had ruling Ankh-Morpork that I've ever known of . . . ."

"He's the least mad and thuggish?" Sybil suggested.

"Well he _has_ been." Vimes frowned. Vetinari's behavior of late had been a bit odd, now that he thought about it. Not anything you could put a finger on exactly, but . . . . There _had_ been that bit of business during the railway journey to Uberwald to get the Low King, er, Queen back to Bonk and to the Scone of Stone in time to foil the graggish coup by that crazy bastard Ardent. Vimes hadn't been fooled by Vetinari's disguised turn as 'Stoker Blake', and if Vimes hadn't been deceived, others had probably spotted the Patrician under that grease and coal patina as well. Moist von Lipwig certainly would've – Vimes wasn't prepared to put anything past that clever rogue. Lipwig had spotted a couple of dwarf spies that had got past the Watch too.

Vimes could understand _why_ Vetinari had done it, with so much at stake on that mission. But if Vetinari was going to disguise himself as a railway stoker, why make himself the most conspicuous one? And Stoker Blake had been conspicuous all right, a bit _too_ good at his job, a bit _too_ much better than all the other stokers on board the train. Vimes knew all about Vetinari's reputation for stealth and subtlety – the man was an Assassin, for crying out loud. So why draw so much attention to his made-up persona? Why try to awe all the other stokers and railway crew by winning little competitions with them? That hadn't been subtle. It wasn't smart, either.

Hell, it wasn't _Vetinari_.

There had been other small changes that Vimes had observed in the man. Once or twice in the past few weeks Vimes had been summoned to the Palace early in the morning only to find the Patrician fuming because he hadn't been able to solve the crossword puzzle in the _Ankh-Morpork Times_. That hadn't been typical either. The Lord Vetinari that Vimes – that the whole damn city – knew was a man who could out-cool a glacier. He didn't lose his temper over anything so petty as a newspaper novelty. Why . . . .

"A dollar for your thoughts, dear?" Sybil interrupted her husband's reverie. "It looks like a penny won't be enough."

"Erm, sorry." Might as well ask the question, though. "Does it seem to you as if Vetinari has been acting at all strange lately?"

"Strange in what way? I've known him since we were children, Sam, but I don't see as much of him these days as you do. Nothing that I can recall, but he's always been a bit different."

"Grouchier maybe? More tyrannical than usual?" _More of an egotistical son of a bitch?_

Sybil must have read his mind. She was alarmingly good at that.

"You know, I wish you boys could just get along nicely with one another." She patted Vimes on the knee. "I realize you and Havelock have your differences once in a while . . . ."

Vimes did his best to keep his face a mask of neutrality.

"But you both want the same thing when it comes right down to it. You both work for the good of this city! And isn't that what's important? You ought to be working together more often. Oh Sam, _do_ stop looking as if you've stuck your head in a freezer!" She patted him again and stood up. "Of course, you can't work together if Havelock doesn't recover, I realize that. But I'm not about to give up hope yet, and you shouldn't either! Now run upstairs and say hello to your son and I'll go find out when dinner is going to be ready."

They emerged to find Willikens, the butler, with neat precision putting away the armor and dragon pen outer-wear they'd discarded. Willikens, in addition to being a gentleman's gentleman, enjoyed the singular distinction of being one of the dirtiest, most lethal street fighters Vimes had ever met. It was a talent Vimes had grown to appreciate more than he could say over the years, especially when trouble had come calling far, far too close to home. Willikens shared Sybil's talent for reading Vimes like a book as well. He didn't ask Vimes if anything was the matter before Vimes headed up for some quality time with Young Sam – he simply gave Vimes a look to indicate he _knew_.

Damn Vetinari!

How long had it been since the city had nearly blown up like an alchemist's powder keg over a change in the government? Not nearly damn long enough . . . .

[* * * *]


	5. Fishy Business

Old Peculiar Street wasn't the sort of place nice people hang out1, and Smalldab ought to know. He wasn't nice. His pals Oozy Walters and Three Pie Mikky weren't nice either. The trouble was, when you were in a gang called the Smuts, you had to keep proving it. With a name like that, you didn't have street cred.

The Smuts had been too far ahead of their time, that was their problem. In the old days, it would have been a good enough to say they were the Smuts and be done with it. Time was, gangs could be called Shamleggers, Bootstrap Baggers, Roaring Boys, any of that stuff would have been fine. But not now. These days, the _real_ tough lads showed their mettle by picking a moniker that let folks how low down, dirty and disgusting they were prepared to get. The Smuts had been in front of the curve. Smut – what wasn't as down and dirty as that? People even called swamp dragons smuts, and what could be more disgusting than them? But Oozy, Smalldab and Three Pie had jumped the crossbow and now other gangs were making them look like pikers. Sure, if you were a member of the Chronic Diarrhea or the Vomitous Stench gangs you could hold your head high.2 But a Smut? Not so much.

You couldn't just change your gang's name either. That was showing the other gangs you were weak, you were admitting you'd Johnson'd up.3 Trying to prove you were a tough guy these days was enough to make a feller cry. Smalldab and his chums were so knotted up about it they never even noticed the orangutan that had perched on a roof over their heads to jot down some notes for a monograph on 'Fish Gods And Why It's Best Not To Annoy Them.'

Normally the Librarian of Unseen University enjoyed being seen by people. Becoming an orangutan as a result of a miscast spell had given him numerous advantages that his human self had never enjoyed. Aside from the ease of swinging his way around the stacks at his job, the physical strength and agility he possessed gave patrons a whole new inducement for treating books carefully and returning them on time. His ability to 'go Librarian' on anybody he wanted to had reduced the incidents of dog-earing Library pages to practically zero, and he got his banana daiquiris at the Mended Drum for free. But tonight was not a night for frivolity. The Librarian was as troubled by the condition of Unseen University's new guest as the Archchancellor and other wizards had been. A search of the Library records and a consultation with Hex, Unseen University's thinking engine, had turned up no useful information on stasis spells and substances so far, and rather than sulk under his blanket, the Librarian had gone off to clear his mind with another task.

"So what're we gonner do about it, then?" Oozy Walters muttered. "I hear them Pustulent Cysts on Elm Street was tellin' everybody we was from the right side of the tracks!" Ankh-Morpork had owned a railway system for less than a year, but the Smuts were pretty sure they knew which side of the tracks they wanted to be from.

"S'no good," Three Pie Mikky nodded. "Them thinkins' us good, s'no good."

"Way I see it," Smalldab spat on the pavement, "we've gotta pull something off that everybody _knows_ is bad, something that none of the other gangs is doing."

"Yer, like what?" The Pustulent Cysts had been real overachievers in most departments.

"Murder, robbery, graffiti, that's all taken." Smalldab ticked them off on his fingers. No one ever suggested rape. Word on the street was the Agony Aunts, Dotsie and Sadie, would find you all the way in Klatch if you tried _that_. "Sabbath breaking?"

"Yeah, which one?" In a city with thousands of gods to worship, 'sabbath' left a lot of room for interpretation.

"I've got it!" Smalldab smacked his fist on a wall. "How about book burning?" Somehow, everyone knew _that_ was bad. "Well?"

"Guess it's settled then," Oozy Walters looked over at Three Pie.

"I di'nt say nuthin," Three Pie mumbled.

"You sure?"

"Yer."

"Only 'cos I thought I heard someone say Oook . . . ."

[* * * *]

1 In fact, it wasn't even an official street, but what was left of part of Dagon Street, where a certain unfortunate had learned the hard way that opening his Three Jolly Luck Takeout Fish House on the site of an old temple during a full moon brought not a great deal of Jolly, but definitely lots of the sort of luck you hope you never have.

2 There had been only one brief and aborted attempt to form a gang called the Foul Ol' Rons, however. Even the criminal underside of Ankh-Morpork has its limits.

3 See Johnson, Bergholt Stuttley.


	6. Little Grey Robes Full of Nothing

"Grandfather, have you gone off your rocker?"

Susan had dragged Death into a side room to have several private words with him.1

WELL I AM NOT SITTING IN IT AT THE MOMENT, SO . . . .

"You _know_ what I mean! How could you have anything to do with Lord Vetinari? Besides the obvious!"

IT IS NOT 'BESIDES THE OBVIOUS' AS YOU PUT IT. HE IS MOSTLY DEAD.

" _Mostly_ dead? Only mostly?" Susan's face flushed so that three pale streaks – her birthmark – stood out on one cheek. "You didn't take him early, did you? Because of them?"

YOU KNOW I AM NOT ALLOWED TO DO THAT. IF HE IS HERE, IT IS BECAUSE OF THEIR ACTIONS, AND HIS.

"And if they bend the rules, that makes it okay for you to bend them too, is that it?"

Death said nothing.

"How do you expect me to work with _him_?" She hissed. "He's the bloody Patrician of Ankh-Morpork!"

AND YOU ARE THE DUCHESS OF STO HELIT. HE IS NOT BLOODY. THE CAUSE WAS POISON. Death made a polite cough, or tried to. Coughing was not an activity he had any practice at.2 I DIDN'T THINK YOU WERE BOTHERED BY THAT SORT OF THING.

"I'm not. It's just an expression. I mean, he's Mr. High And Mighty Lord Havelock Aren't I The Great Tyrant Vetinari! He doesn't work _with_ people – he works _at_ them! Or on and over them."

HE IS NOT A TEAM PLAYER LIKE YOURSELF. THAT IS WHAT YOU ARE SUGGESTING.

Susan gave her grandfather a look. She almost gave him _the_ look.

"You aren't starting to develop a sense of humor, are you?"

HOW WOULD I KNOW IF I DID?

"Good point. But why Vetinari?" Susan ran a hand through her hair as it rearranged itself in an agitated fashion. "He's a politician. What's he going to do against the Auditors, threaten to raise their taxes?"

HE IS A MAN OF MANY TALENTS. HE MAY SURPRISE YOU.

Susan had been prepared to head back to the Library, but a hint in her grandfather's words made her hesitate.

"You _know_ something, don't you?" She glared at him. "Of course you do! You always do! And you aren't going to tell me what it is either! You expect me to drop everything I'm doing and take on all these ridiculously dangerous tasks because I'm not bound by the same rules you are! All because of those creepy, obsessive little . . . ." She balled her hands into fists, too furious to speak for a moment, and glared at Death again. "Am I right?"

YOU HAVE MADE AN ACCURATE STATEMENT OF THE FACTS. I AM PLEASED THAT YOU ARE TAKING THIS SO WELL.

"Oh, nougat!3 You _are_ developing a sense of humor." She took a deep breath, snorted it out and with the practical mind that she sometimes wished was a bit less practical realized that she wasn't going to get any more answers or win any staring contests here. "Fine! Since it's the fate of the entire Disc we're talking about, I'll even work with Lord Vetinari if I have to! But don't expect me to be happy about it!" With teeth joining her fists in the clenched school of philosophy, she stormed out of the side room and back to a meeting with the Ankh-Morporkian she had worked hardest to avoid.

Upon entering the Library, Susan found the dread, mostly dead tyrant of Ankh-Morpork still engaged in a friendly chat with Lu-Tze the Sweeper. This wasn't necessarily reassuring. Lu-Tze, a legendary figure among the equally legendary Monks of Time, could be cheerful and polite even to those who were attempting to kill him, while teaching them the importance of Rule One: Do not act incautiously when confronting little bald wrinkly smiling men. Lu-Tze was happy to offer introductions to total strangers. If they were particularly stupid, on rare occasions, he'd introduce them to their own spleens and other internal organs. But this didn't appear to be one of those confrontations. Was Vetinari trying to be _charming_? The man was almost twinkling.

"Your Grace," Vetinari nodded to Susan with a genial smile. "I do beg your pardon for not addressing you by your proper title earlier, but Master Lu-Tze has only begun acquainting me with our present situation and the esteemed company I find myself in."

"I prefer to be called Miss Susan," Susan said, being careful to use her proper, neutral schoolteacher voice. She did not turn to show Lu-Tze the dirty look she felt like giving him. Aside from the fact that it would amuse him, she knew she was being tested. With Lu-Tze, everything was a test.

"Miss Susan, then," Vetinari smiled.

Susan had heard that with Lord Vetinari everything was a test also. She intended to do the grading on this one.

"My good friend Archchancellor Ridcully has already taught his lordship Rule One," Lu-Tze winked.

"Indeed. I should be remiss if I were to act incautiously in the presence of the famous Sweeper," Lord Vetinari replied. "Though I prefer not to act incautiously when confronted by anyone. One tends to live longer that way. Or should I say one _used_ to? Such an awkward turn of events." He shook his head slightly, and his smile gained a wry edge. "I confess, while I of course know of Alberto Malich of historic fame and have been making a study of Mr. Soak's work for some time-" Ronnie Soak, the milkman, pricked up at these words "-I was unaware that Death had a granddaughter, and that the little-heard-from Duchess of Sto Helit was she."

He raised an eyebrow at her. She raised one of hers right back at him.

"I don't like drawing attention to myself," she said.

"Ah, yes. You know, that can be said of a great many people I find my attention drawn to, some of them quite extraordinary individuals. They will go to considerable lengths to avoid my notice and yet I have my little ways of finding out about them nevertheless. You seem to be an exception to that."

If he expected her to take the bait, Susan thought, he was going to be sorely disappointed. And she didn't have to say anything, because Ronnie Soak, her grandfather's former fellow Horseman, could be Need For Attention personified. He leapt into the opening she left in the conversation.

"You've studied my work? Really?" Ronnie asked a bit too eagerly.

"Of course," Vetinari said. "Anyone with the power of observation can see that you are no ordinary milkman. I deduced as much some time ago, and I must compliment you on your remarkable delivery methods. You deliver only the freshest, most high quality dairy products to the Palace of Ankh-Morpork at precisely 7:00 a.m. sharp every morning. You also deliver the best, freshest dairy products to the Assassin's Guild at precisely 7:00 a.m. sharp every morning. And to the Unseen University at 7:00 a.m. sharp every morning. And to the Guild houses, and to many of the city's leading tradesmen and aristocrats and, as it turns out, to a significant percentage of Ankh-Morpork's common population. All at 7:00 a.m. exactly and all without being observed in two places at the same time. I find that fascinating."

Ronnie Soak grinned but offered no explanation.

"My dark clerks and I can't figure out how you're doing it. I've asked them not to annoy you too much by their inquiries, and I trust they have not been a hindrance? Excellent delivery service is something that should never be taken for granted."

Ronnie still said nothing, but he was looking pleased as punch with himself.

"So – a puzzle then," Vetinari mused. "I like puzzles. How fortunate for me, since I seem to be presented with so many of them all at once."

"Just so," Lu-Tze agreed. "For is it not written, 'If it's not one thing, it's another?'"

"It would seem to me that the puzzle I must tackle first is the task we have in common – saving the world from these mysterious beings you call the Auditors of Reality. Since you all appear to be familiar with these creatures and I am a late arrival to the party in every sense of the word, perhaps you would be so good as to fill me in?"

"Little grey buggers who need smashing," Ronnie said first. "Think they know everything and can go around telling everyone what can and can't exist."

"With themselves in the existing column and most living creatures in the non-existing one." Susan had stopped clenching her hands into fists, but the agitation crept back into her voice. "They consider themselves superior to the rest of us, but they're not really living, not in the usual way. They don't understand life at all. To them, everything is a collection of molecules to be tidied up – 'audited' – studied and nothing more. If it doesn't make sense to them, they'll take it apart until they've found out how it works or there's not enough left of it to bother them."

"A bean counter mentality?" Vetinari asked.

"They're worse than bean counters. They're bean analyzers – who hate beans."

"And they have the power to make entire worlds cease to exist?"

Susan, Lu-Tze and Ronnie shrugged among themselves.

"They haven't done that so far," Susan frowned, "at least as far as we know. Like Grandfather, they have lots and lots of power, but they're bound by rules that keep them from using it directly. And they're mostly disembodied and mostly immortal, but if they take on a mortal form or break the rules, they can be killed just like anyone else – or even easier, since the sensory overload of having a body is almost enough to kill them all by itself. But they can trick living people into doing their dirty work for them. They hired someone from the Assassin's Guild to inhume the Hogfather and stop Hogswatch from coming. They've tried to stop Time and freeze the whole world and everything in it in stasis by getting humans to build perfect glass clocks that could strike with the Universal Tick."

"And these attempts, I take it, have not succeeded, or we would not be here discussing them," Vetinari concluded. "Hogswatch still comes every year, doesn't it?"

"The first glass clock ended with disaster when it broke," Lu-Tze grimaced. "Time stopped, then the past shattered into millions of pieces. History became a stitched together patchwork. The second glass clock almost finished the job."

"That isn't all they did," a quiet voice from near the fireplace added.

All of them looked over to where Albert was fishing his little frying pan from the fire. He sniffled a bit, got out a pair of tongs, and transferred little black and brown lumps into a wooden bowl.

"Some years ago," the elderly wizard said, "they diverted a very large rock in space to try and make it strike the world and destroy it."

"I didn't know that!" Susan's face went blank with shock. "Grandfather never mentioned it!"

"No need," Albert snuffled. "Great A'tuin handled it. Ducked out of the way." He held the bowl out to the rest of the company. "Chestnut?"

[* * * *]

1 Of course, most people who say they want to have "a word" with someone never limit themselves to just one word. Susan Sto Helit is a great believer in using as many words as she feels are necessary and not lying about it in advance.

2 Although Pestilence had made an effort at teaching his fellow Horsemen. Pestilence is always happy to share.

3 It is a well known fact that prolonged daily responsibility for taking care of small children can have a detrimental effect on one's ability to swear. Susan, a sometime governess and elementary school teacher, for example, had all but lost her ability even to utter the word _ing! – although not the ability to feel the essence of the term.


	7. Pressing Matters and Poison

"Mr. de Worde," Commander Vimes smiled from behind his desk in the Pseudopolis Yard Watch House, "what a displeasure. How not nice it is to see you."

William de Worde, editor of the _Ankh-Morpork Times_ , had been escorted to his office by Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, who often handled interview requests from the various city media representatives. Captain Carrot was everything that could be desired in a Public Relations Officer – tall, good looking, intelligent, honest without being _too_ honest, loaded with _krisma_ , well spoken, polite and far less likely than Vimes to want to make de Worde eat not just his words but one of his newspapers. Vimes had a particular grievance with the _Times_ these days. The paper frequently ran political cartoons with likenesses of Vimes himself, and to add insult to injury, Sybil thought these were so precious that she would buy the originals from the paper, frame them and hang them up in the Vimes' Scoone Avenue residence before Vimes could outbid her and burn the damn things. Now Mr. de Worde was standing before Vimes and clutching a weapon that members of the City Watch had learned to fear more than any Burleigh and Stronginthearm crossbow – his notebook. He must have been _very_ insistent in order to get beyond Captain Carrot, and something in Carrot's eyes told Vimes that he was going to have to take this interview in person and that he was not going to enjoy it one bit.

"Your Grace," de Worde half-bowed with a thin-lipped expression. Not a promising start. William de Worde was technically a member of Ankh-Morpork's old aristocracy, but he hated titles as much as Vimes did. Well if he wanted to get a bigger rise out of Vimes, two could play that game.

"If you're here to speak to the Duke of Ankh, he doesn't show up until 5:00. Lazy, those aristos, aren't they?"

De Worde's expression didn't change, but Vimes could see that it wanted to.

"I think you know why I'm here, Commander."

"Do I?"

De Worde tapped the notebook with his pencil and came right to the point.

"Sources at the Palace are saying Lord Vetinari's been murdered. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

So much for the question of how much time they had. Damn.

"And who would these sources happen to be, Mr. de Worde, if you don't mind my asking? Because if Lord Vetinari is dead, I have not been made aware of it." That much was true enough.

"Really? The _Inquirer_ and the _A.M. Allnews_ are already planning to run the story."

"Oh, yes," Vimes grinned. "The _Inquirer –_ they scooped you on that 'Sheep Gives Birth To Three-Headed Swamp Dragon' story, didn't they? And the _Ankh-Morpork Allnews_ – what is it my officers call that one? Ah, now I remember – 'all the news that's fit to primp.' So you're using them as your source material now?"

"Of course not!" William de Worde finally lost some of his composure. "I'm not going to name my sources. But the public has a right to know the truth and they aren't going to get it out of those rags!" He lowered his voice to a whisper and motioned with his head in Carrot's direction. "If I can ask something _off_ the record?"

"You can speak in front of the Captain as you would me," Vimes frowned. "And _is_ there such a thing as 'off the record' with you?"

De Worde nodded, but kept his volume low.

"We both know Vetinari has an exact look alike, and word is he uses the man, Charlie, now whenever he wants to sneak out for a bit. So if it's _not_ only a rumor that Vetinari's dead, why aren't you . . . ?"

"Why aren't I or the clerks trotting out his duplicate to try and play ten o'clock and all's well – is that what you're asking?"

"Well . . . yes."

"Huh. Since you ask, Charlie's not performing his 'Vetinari' act these days. He was doing his clown routine for a birthday party at the Alchemists' Guild and had a bit of an accident. He's recovering from the burns at a nice seaside resort in Quirm. Having a grand old time with his wife Henrietta and young Rupert. Besides," Vimes' frown turned into a not very nice grin, "substituting Charlie for the real Patrician is more your father Lord de Worde's idea than mine, wouldn't you say, Mr. de Worde?"

The newsman stiffened abruptly.

"Oh, yes, Mr. de Worde. I know all about that. I may not be able to prove anything, but I _do_ know about it. You're not so enthusiastic for the truth when it hits a little too close to home, eh?"

Neither man said anything for at least a minute, while Captain Carrot edged his formidable physique closer to standing in between them. De Worde knew better than to try to come to blows with a man like Vimes, especially in the center of the Watch headquarters.

"Will you at least confirm that Lord Vetinari is definitely alive then?"

Vimes crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm not going to confirm or deny anything, Mr. de Worde. Good luck getting your story. Oh, and thank you for your preview of the _Inquirer_ and the _Allnews._ The Watch appreciates the interest of good citizens such as yourself. Now if you don't mind – or even if you do – I'm a busy man, so . . . ."

De Worde put away his notebook and pencil and half-bowed.

"Commander. Captain. No need to show me out."

After the _Times_ editor had departed, Carrot gave Vimes an uncomfortable shrug.

"Was it wise to bait him like that, Sir?"

"Probably not," Vimes sighed. "Even if he did have it coming."

"Did he? Mr. de Worde seems like the honest sort to me, and the _Times_ has often been good to us, even if we don't like everything they print."

"It may have been a long time ago, Captain, but I'm not going to forget how he covered up for his father. I understand about family and all, but we're talking a matter of treason here, one that nearly brought down the government of the city. I also haven't forgotten how he assaulted one of my own finest officers either. I'm amazed you can be so calm about it under the circumstances."

"Angua dealt with it just fine," Carrot shrugged again. "No harm done."

"I can't agree." Vimes shook his head. "It did harm all right – it made me lose my temper and make one of the worst judgment calls of my life. I set Angua to tailing de Worde for his own good – you know that. But when he nose-bombed her and ordered us to stop following him, I let the ungrateful young twerp have his way. And what good did that do? Instead of us protecting him and his staff, the _Times_ shed got burned down, innocent lives were put in danger, and two felons we should have arrested and brought to justice the proper way wound up dead into the bargain. My fault, Captain – and de Worde's."

"That was a long time ago, and it all came out right in the end."

"It almost didn't," Vimes muttered. "What if the fire had spread to the rest of the city? What if someone besides a couple of hired killers had been done in?"

"Can't live your life in 'what ifs', Sir."

"No, I suppose not." Vimes drained the dregs of the strong-as-tar coffee he'd had and slammed the empty mug on his desk. "Hell. So the word is out, sooner than we expected. How long, do you think, before the situation gets out of hand? No, scratch that, the situation _has_ been out of hand since yesterday. Is there any good news to go with the bad?"

"Well, Cheery thinks she and Igor have isolated the poisoning agent," Carrot said, "and it's a bit of an odd one. The Archchancellor sent over a message just before Mr. de Worde showed up to say that there's no change in the Patrician's condition. He's not any better, but he's not any worse at least."

"Lovely." _I guess we'll have to settle for that._

Vimes hauled himself up and winced at his achiness after a night of too little sleep.

"I better see what Igor and Cheery have to say," Vimes nodded and headed for the door. "As you were, Captain and . . . thanks for listening."

Forensics kept their department in the basement of Pseudopolis Yard and Vimes took the steps down two at a time to limber up and convince himself that he wasn't as weary as he felt. Some of the stairs were a good challenge too – they made a dented obstacle course as a result of the Watch's troll officers taking them at a run on more than one occasion. The Watch's biggest bruisers, Sergeant Detritus and Corporal Bluejohn, massive trolls both, were out of town and far to the north at the request of Diamond King of Trolls assisting with a 'Scared Smart' program. Walking in – or around – their footprint dents, Vimes thought it might be a good time to ask for their return pronto. Diamond King could still hold onto Detritus' protégé, young Brick – if hearing Brick's stories didn't scare young trolls off of drugs Vimes didn't know what would – but the Watch needed Detritus' and Bluejohn's muscle if a constitutional crisis and civil unrest broke out. When push came to shove, Detritus and Bluejohn were a _lot_ of push and shove.

"Hi, Mister Vimes," Cheery called over as he entered the forbidding lair of the 'Crumbs and Scums Interpretation' team. Vimes wasn't wild about the way the Watch had redubbed the Forensics division, but the initials had a nice ring to them.

Cheery and Igor were taking turns looking through the lenses of one of Igor's latest inventions – a 'microbe scope' Igor called it – and Vimes looked left and right and all around before walking all the way through the door. Some of Igor's experiments had a way of getting . . . . _interesting_ . . . . and much too mobile for Vimes' taste. The swimming and jumping potatoes were gone (by popular request), but Vimes was certain they'd been replaced with something just as objectionable. That wasn't what he was here to find out though.

"Ah, Mithter Vimes," Igor galumphed over1. "To what do we owe the pleathure?"

"No pleasantries today, thanks," Vimes said. "Carrot tells me you've been able to isolate and identify the poison in Vetinari's mug?"

"Yeth," Igor sniffed. He was still a little put out by not being allowed to remain in the Patrician's Palace and attempt to revive Vetinari using one of his preferred methods. "Thomething known ath Gamblonium. And in my opinion, Thir, it wath a motht unprofethional choice, a very unreliable toxin."

"Because it's so easy to detect?"

"That, yeth," Igor nodded. "Eathy to detect if you are a forenthic thpecialist, but not tho eathy to recognithe. It'th hardly ever uthed, becauthe it'th taste free and thent free for the victim, but it only killth fifty per thent of the time. A thort of headth you live, tailth you die, if you know what I mean."

Now _that_ was a bit different, all right.

"Could that be why Vetinari is sort of dead and sort of alive at the same time?" Vimes asked.

"It's not quite that simple," Cheery looked up from the microbe-scope to join in the conversation. "Gamblonium's properties are fairly well known, and there's no report of them putting anyone in a state of suspended animation. Take it and you either live or you die, but there's no in-between state similar to the Patrician's in any of the literature. It's rare stuff, too – not very easy to get a hold of."

"Illegal, I'm assuming?"

"More than illegal, Thir," Igor confirmed. "In Uberwald it ith thrictly forbidden to produthe under pain of death. Long ago, rich kidth looking for kickth uthed to dare each other to take it, with thuch frightful results that almotht all of the particular plant capable of produthing it wath rendered extinct."

"If it's so hard to get, and so risky to choose as a method for killing someone, why on the Disc would anyone use it . . . ." Vimes mused. "Is there a known cure?"

"None, Thir."

"And Vetinari consumed it?"

"Without being allowed to cut him open, I cannot thay, Thir," Igor sniffed again.

"But it was on his lips," Cheery reminded Vimes. "I think we can safely say he drank it and didn't suspect a thing. It would have been murder – or attempted murder. If Lord Vetinari was in a mood to commit suicide, he'd do a better job than that."

Vimes agreed. Vetinari was the gambling type all right – one had to be, in his job. But even if the Patrician's behavior had seemed a little off lately, he didn't strike Vimes as the suicidal sort. And the crossword puzzle in the morning edition of the _Times_ that had been sitting on Vetinari's Oblong Office desk was barely even half complete. Somehow, Vimes thought, if Vetinari were going to kill himself, he'd do it _after_ he'd finished the damn puzzle – and he'd choose a poison that _worked_.

"I jutht don't know what the world ith coming to, Thir," Igor lithped.2 "I really don't."

"It's coming to us needing to save the city again, as usual," Vimes sighed. _From itself?_ "Mr. William de Worde of the _Times_ just stopped by my office to inform me that little birds in high places have been singing. I figure we've got maybe ten to twelve hours at most before the real trouble starts, so batten down the hatches and prepare for mass casualties."

Igor and Cheery nodded glumly.

"I could thtill try thomething if we could get a really good lightning thtorm going, Thir . . . ."

"No thank you, Mr. Igor! We don't want to generate any lightning in the vicinity of Unseen University – _**ever!**_ " Vimes shuddered. "The Watch is enough of a lightning rod as it is. Let's just be ready for when the Rats Chamber starts living up to its name and the streets hit the, uh, streets. I'll be calling back our outliers and calling up as many Specials as I can get. It's all hands on deck until we get back the current Patrician or get saddled with a new one.

 _And if a new Patrician is anything like the ones we had before Vetinari,_ Vimes thought, _heaven help us all!_

[* * * *]

1 Contrary to popular belief, not all Igors are hunchbacks, and they don't _have_ to lurch awkwardly. Igors can be remarkably graceful and quick when necessary – but there _is_ such a thing as expectations and pride in one's craft.

2 An Igor would pronounce this word _correctly_ , of courthe.


	8. Trains and Tribulations

Moist von Lipwig liked parties, except for the necktie variety, so he was pleased to see an impromptu party going on as he stopped by the offices of the Ankh-Morpork and Sto Plains Hygienic Railway – and it looked like it had only just started. Railway crew, stokers, bagmen and engineers were taking time out from their ever important schedules to coalesce around a growing center group containing a merry Sir Harry King, his 'Duchess' Effie King, their daughters and niece Emily King and – in an uncharacteristically grease stain-free state, Dick Simnel, inventor of the steam locomotive and builder of the famous Iron Girder. Young Dick must have put in a good job scrubbing – his face looked nearly as ruddy as Harry's. Or was that a bit of a blush Moist detected as well?

"Oi, Lipwig!" Sir Harry laughed, giving Moist a slap on the back that almost knocked him over. "You're just in time, you young rascal! Our Mr. Simnel here has just announced his engagement to our Emily! This calls for a celebration!"

Well, that certainly explained Dick's neat, clean appearance – and the blush. The railway inventor, who could be eloquence itself in front of reporters, was happy as a bucketful of clams now, but shy and tongue-tied as ever around the woman he loved. Luckily, Moist's golem secretary Gladys had given him plenty of practice in recovering from hearty backslaps like Harry's, so he was among the first to pump Dick's hand and offer his congratulations.

"Just be sure you know what you're getting into, Dick!" Moist grinned. "There're some things in life the sliding rule won't help you with, and one of 'em is women!"

"Thanks - I reckon as I'll manage, Mr. Lipwig," Dick beamed. "After all, you and Mrs. Adora Belle seem happy enough, and me and Emily are determined to make a right start of it."

In fact, Moist's marriage to Adora Belle Dearheart had made him more than happy – it made him feel like the luckiest man in the whole world. But one of the reasons their marriage worked so well is that their respective jobs kept them so busy, they rarely had time to get on each other's nerves. What with Moist being the Postmaster-General of Ankh-Morpork, Vice Chairman of the Royal Bank, Master of the city Mint and Director for the railway – and anything else Lord Vetinari decided to make him – and Adora Belle being part owner and current head of the Grand Trunk Clacks Company as well as head of the Golem Trust, they had learned not to take any alone time they got for granted. Moist wished the new couple every joy and hoped the fact that they worked together for the railway wasn't going to prove too big an obstacle to overcome.

"And how is Adora?" Lady Effie asked. "We hardly ever get to see her! You must bring her around more often!"

"I'd be happy to if the Clacks and the golems can spare her," Moist said. "We'll be celebrating our own anniversary in a few days, and we're lucky to get even that evening off."

"I'll bet you've got plans for that evening, eh?" Harry chuckled, and gave Effie a gentle nudge with his elbow. "Remember what we were like at that age, Duchess? Think we can still give the grandkids something to be embarrassed about?"

"Oh, you!" Effie slapped his hand away and decided to act more with the proper decorum of Lady Euphemia King. "I hope you've thought of a nice anniversary present for your wife, Mr. Lipwig?"

"I've more than thought of it," Moist told her. "I commissioned it at Mason and Hawksworth a couple of weeks ago and it should be ready to pick up just in the nick of time." Part of him still winced at the thought of _buying_ jewelry, but the anticipation of giving it to Adora was compensation enough for this non-unlawful act. And the rest of their anniversary night would be . . . . Moist became so lost in rapt contemplation of an unwrapped Adora that he lost the thread of the conversation for a few seconds.

"I said, you two _will_ be coming to the wedding, won't you Mr. Lipwig?" Lady Euphemia repeated.

"Of course they will, Duchess!" Harry answered for him, and Harry King was a man one didn't say no to. "Can't miss out on the social event of the year, now can they? Just you make sure your Missus shows off that pretty bauble you're buying her. Young Dick and our Emily want to hold the wedding on Iron Girder herself, and it'll be a job to get all of us outshining her after they've finished polishing her up."

The idea of a wedding taking place on Dick Simnel's first and favorite locomotive was a novel one, Moist thought, but how else could Iron Girder attend, after all? Suddenly his head was swimming with ideas for all sorts of new 'special occasion' train trips that would bring even more money and success to the railway. He had begun describing these visions of the future to Harry and Dick over a proffered glass of champagne when the bride-to-be came out with a suggestion for the wedding that almost made him choke.

"I know!" Emily said. "You should all wear your train medals!"

Lord Vetinari had rewarded all the railmen, Watch officers, guards and crew, human, goblin, dwarf, troll alike who had participated in the Low King's perilous journey to Uberwald to reclaim his/her throne with a special medal commemorating their heroics – all except one person, that is. Moist's sole reward for a week of risking his life and battling grags determined to stop the train at any cost, was simply to be allowed to go on living. Vetinari had no medal, and no appreciation, for him. But there was no need for _everyone_ to know that.

"Oh, I don't think that's such a good idea," Moist shook his head with a forced smile. "We wouldn't want everyone who wasn't lucky enough to be on that train trip," _lucky enough to get themselves almost horribly killed, that is,_ "to be envious. I think that's an honor that should be reserved for the groom himself on his special day." Dick Simnel's medal, Moist happened to know, was an extra fancy one that would have made the medals handed out to the rest of the crew look dull by comparison.

"Right you are, Lipwig, as always," Harry agreed, and put an arm over his nephew-to-be's shoulder. "Have to make our Dick here shine up with somethin' other than machine oil! And maybe the uncle o' the bride could wear his knight's sash instead, eh?"

Lady Euphemia clapped enthusiastically at that suggestion. She never passed up an opportunity to remind the hoi polloi of Ankh-Morpork society how far she and her Duke had come from their days of making a living sorting tosheroons out of city sewers. With Emily's well-meant medal enthusiasm shelved, Moist managed to enjoy himself enough until the party broke up and he headed off, with only a small pang of envy for the medal honorees.

Who cared if Vetinari gave him a silly little medal anyway? Medals were no better than the chains of goldish from the Merchants' Societies of the city, and he'd long stopped wishing he had one of those. He'd gotten much better rewards than any medal. He had a wife he loved more than anything, and along with her, her family, which was now his family too. He had more friends than he could count, close ones like Sir Harry and Dick and Of the Twilight the Darkness, and many more. Tolliver Groat, Stanley Howler, Mr. Pump, Gladys, Mr. Bent – he'd even gotten a handshake and a kind of beginning of a friendship from City Watch Commander Sam Vimes of all people. That wasn't all Moist had – he enjoyed the good opinion and even admiration of the hundreds of people who worked for the Bank, the Post Office, the Mint, the Railroad. He and Adora owned a fine home on Scoone Avenue and had a small domestic staff, and they all liked him too.

He'd had more adventures in only a few years than most people have in a lifetime. He'd saved the Post Office from ruin, saved the Clacks network from Reacher Gilt and his minions. He'd gotten to ride golem horses and dance on the top of a moving train.

What was a mere medal compared to any of that?

A sign of the respect he didn't have from one person, damn it all . . . .

It's not as if he hadn't _tried_. That was the really unfair part of it. Moist had done everything Vetinari ever asked of him and more. Sure, he'd been a criminal once. Well, okay, a lot more than once. He still prided himself on keeping his hand in as a scoundrel, as long as it was against people who deserved to be scoundrelled. But he was a changed man now – even Vimes said as much. He might have been reformed under threat of hanging, but where some criminals turn over a new leaf, Moist had turned over the entire tree, and that ought to have counted for _something_.

But the one man who had demanded Moist von Lipwig put his wicked ways behind him was the same man who would never let him stop paying for them.

Vetinari had allowed him to live. Most days that seemed like enough, but . . . .

As Moist wended his way home, he heard the familiar calls of the newspaper carriers. He didn't have to buy one. All three of the evening editions would be waiting for him back at Scoone Avenue. But he thought he heard one of the criers call out . . . . no, that can't be right. It couldn't have happened, could it? Unable to restrain his curiosity until he got home, he fished some coins out of his pocket and purchased the _Times_ , the _Allnews_ and the _Inquirer_. The last was mostly for laughs, mostly. But there was nothing about the main headline of any of the three papers that made him want to laugh as he read them.

Life was not a gift to be taken for granted after all . . . .

[* * * *]

"Lord Vetinari Dead," an imperious voice read off the headline of the _Ankh-Morpork Allnews_. "A bit unexpected perhaps, and yet it has a nice ring to it. Wouldn't you agree, Witworth?"

"Certainly," the man called Witworth said. "It might save us a lot of trouble if it's true."

"Even if it isn't," the reader purred, "it still helps us. Vetinari indisposed is Vetinari deposed. We just have to move up the timetable before whoever did us this favor moves on their own."

"Is that wise, m'lord? We haven't finished our preparations, and Lord Vetinari's condition could change at any moment."

"It is not only wise, it is necessary." Velvet gloved hands folded up the evening edition and set it aside. "We may never have a better opportunity than the present. Vetinari is down, no one else is yet up, the Palace is thrown into confusion and the City Watch is scattered to the winds. What more could be desired? We have the men and the materials in place, do we not? And the support of the right people?"

"We do, m'lord, but . . . ."

"No arguments, Witworth. You know the plan, and I'm saying we go ahead with it."

Witworth bowed.

"We shall make our move in Sator Square in four days." Witworth's lord announced. "All I require is our target, someone well known to the public, someone I can crush."

"And have you chosen that someone yet, m'lord?"

A gloved hand waved at the stack of newspapers discarded in one of the dark corners of the room.

"Oh yes, Witworth, I have . . . ."

[* * * *]


	9. Granny's Warning

"So how does one go about finding little grey robes full of nothing? If they are capable of tampering with our minds, how do we fight them?" Vetinari mused.

"They aren't capable of tampering with _my_ mind," Ronnie Soaks grinned.

Vetinari stared down at his own reflection in the polished surface of a decorative table in the Library. The image was clear, but the memory behind those familiar eyes was not. Memory. The key to what they were all looking for might be in his memories, but which ones could he trust?

"Miss Susan," Vetinari whispered. A whisper carried far in the House of Death.

"Yes?"

"I believe I need to speak to your grandfather again. Can you take me to him?"

The strange, self-possessed young woman raised an eyebrow at him. But it wasn't a mockery – it was as much her gesture as one of his. She frowned in annoyance and motioned for him to follow her.

"You don't care for my company very much, Miss Susan," Vetinari said.

She evidently took this as the statement it was and said nothing.

"May I ask why?"

"You may. Don't expect me to answer."

Death had returned to the hall of the lifetimers. He kept his back turned to Susan and Vetinari as they entered the room, but knew they were there.

YES.

"Yes what, grandfather?"

YES, I CAN SHOW HAVELOCK VETINARI WHAT HE THINKS HE WISHES TO SEE.

"Well, I'll leave you two to discuss it then, shall I?" Susan glanced from Death to Vetinari and back and waited for an objection that didn't come before leaving the room in a silent huff.

"I have given some offense, I trust?" Vetinari asked.

MY GRANDDAUGHTER DOES NOT LIKE AUTHORITY FIGURES OR AUDITORS OF REALITY.

"And I am an authority figure who, according to you, has been manipulated by these Auditors of Reality."

YES.

"That would seem to make me the weak link in the chain. A poor choice for an ally among this team of 'world savers' you've assembled."

THE AUDITORS WILL THINK SO TOO.

"Ah. I am not accustomed to being a weak link. Nor am I accustomed to being a link at all."

YET YOU ARE A NECESSARY ONE. AS THE OTHERS ARE NECESSARY, EACH IN THEIR OWN WAY.

"You said that the Auditors can't manipulate me while I am in this place, but what happens if we have to leave this house in order to confront them? What then?"

NOW THAT YOU HAVE BEEN FREED FROM THEIR INFLUENCE, THEY CANNOT ENTER INTO YOUR MIND AGAIN UNLESS YOU LET THEM. AS YOU ALLOWED THEM TO ENTER IT THE FIRST TIME.

"I don't ever remember agreeing to any such thing."

NEVERTHELESS, YOU DID. THE PARTS OF YOUR LIFE YOU DO NOT REMEMBER WELL ARE THE ONES YOU DO NOT WISH TO REMEMBER. YOU CAN SUMMON THEM UP IF YOU TRY.

Death reached for a shelf and pulled down an hourglass Vetinari recognized as his own, the streams of blue and black sand still frozen in their course.

THIS WILL HELP YOU TO RECALL THE MEMORIES YOU ARE MISSING. YOU MAY TAKE IT WITH YOU IF YOU WISH. FOR NOW. Death handed him the hourglass. IT IS NOT AS FRAGILE AS IT APPEARS, BUT DO NOT BE CARELESS WITH IT.

"I take it that breaking the object would have unfortunate consequences for me?"

A BIT OF AN UNDERSTATEMENT, BUT YES.

Vetinari turned the hourglass around in his fingers, the feel of the glass oddly familiar and warm to the touch, observing it from every angle.

"It gives new meaning to taking my life into my own hands," he said. "Although I suppose I've done that many times before."

MORE THAN MOST.

The sometime-Patrician gazed deep into the sands of the lifetimer. The blue stream, though unmoving, seemed to swell before him, a river of individual moments, grains of sand each with its own set of facets.

"When can I use it to start to remember?" He asked Death . . . .

. . . . and found himself standing in the Oblong Office. He didn't usually stand up for his guests, particularly uninvited ones, but on this occasion he was making an exception. He had never met her before, but his intelligence sources were everywhere and he had heard the stories. Drumknott had evidently heard them too. His secretary looked as stiff as one of his manila folders, and as pale as the hard-boiled egg Lord Vetinari had consumed for breakfast that morning.

She was exactly as he had expected her to be from the tales that came out of faraway Lancre, an elderly woman dressed in black crepe, with the high, pointed hat of her trade. Stained from travel, dust still brushed up against her skin and attire, with wrinkled stockings and boots that had seen better decades, she looked as out of place in the spotless Oblong Office as one of Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler's sausages inna bun would have appeared at a state banquet. But there was no question in her bearing that she had every right to be there, and no soldier, guard or clerk had barred her way. Lord Vetinari performed a half bow to this forbidding figure and waved Drumknott out of the room.

"Dame Weatherwax," Vetinari gave her a thin smile. "May I offer you a chair? Something to eat or drink, perhaps?"

"I aten't staying," the old woman scowled at him, but she took a chair in front of the desk, and Vetinari assumed his usual seat.

"And to what do I owe this singular honor?"

 _The Vetinari who hovered in a place beyond the Oblong Office listened and heard the slightest hint of sarcasm in his own voice and protested. That could not have been him! He knew who could and could not be patronized. It was evident from the squint in Dame Weatherwax' eyes that she had heard that sarcastic note too._

"I'll come right to the main bit," Granny Weatherwax frowned and scratched the bridge of her nose. "Your kingdom is unhappy. A lot of kingdoms are uhappy. They're all coming to me and pestering me to do something about it."

"There must be some mistake," Lord Vetinari said, and continued to smile with a slight inclination of his head. "I am the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. I do not have a kingdom, and Ankh-Morpork is not ruled by kings."

The old woman scoffed.

"Kingdom, non-kingdom, whatever you care to call this place. You know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I do not."

 _She is a powerful witch! He yelled at himself. Listen to what she is saying!_

"The lands are out of balance," the old woman continued. "The Disc is getting out of balance. You and your fellow rulers are so busy making all the changes you want, you haven't been paying attention to what the land is trying to tell you! Wars and iron and smoke, all coming too fast for you to notice the damage you're doing, and too much greed playing into too many hands."

"Ah. So this is about the railroad, is it?" The Vetinari of the Oblong Office steepled his hands in front of him on the great desk and sighed. "I confess, I have had my own reservations about steam engine time. But change comes to all things, Dame Weatherwax, and I would rather have Ankh-Morpork riding the wave than being washed out to sea behind it. Of course, a certain amount of noise and pollution is inevitable, but even in Lancre the benefits-"

She silenced him with an upraised palm.

"This isn't all about the railroad, though it's about it some. I don't argue about change coming, either. You don't just stop change. But there's magics that make this world what it is, and some magics don't like iron! How much are you minding where all those tracks are going, what places they're crossing, and who's laying 'em? And it's not just the iron tracks. It's the patterns. While you're digging one kind of metal for your trains, and coal, the dwarves're digging out other metals for their new chain mails, and more coal for forging it, and making more patterns. Patterns that change the balance!"

The Lord Vetinari who lived raised an eyebrow at her.

 _The Vetinari who did not quite live, listened and heard something in her words he had not remembered._

"I'm afraid I know nothing of these patterns you speak of, but I assure you, the railroad tracks for the Ankh-Morpork and Sto Plains Hygienic Railway are being laid in accordance and consent with the legal property owners, on land that is suitable for them, and the city's mining operations are conducted likewise." The Patrician said. "Also, while I have some sway with the Low Queen and Lady Margolotta of Uberwald, I have very little say in where and how the dwarves choose to lay their mines."

He had expected her to argue more with him, to try staring him down – as if anyone could succeed at doing that. But she didn't, she only frowned. She had looked old enough when she had entered for her audience with him. Now she appeared slightly older.

"That's it, then?" she asked.

"For my part."

"For your part. That's what I've heard from the others too. For all their parts." The witch sighed, looked up and shook a finger at him. "You and them fellow rulers of yours get along all right for making money, and getting what you want. But for doing what's hard, and not making money, you all say with each other you have no say. Change is coming all right, and it's a change you won't like!"

Lord Vetinari stood as a polite way to indicate that this interview was at an end, but did not rush her. She must have flown a long way to arrive there after all. He was not without some curiosity.

"If you have a concern of a magical nature, why not pay a call on the Archchancellor of Unseen University?" he asked.

The weariness, the _oldness_ in her eyes became more pronounced.

"Mustrum Ridcully is working on a spell I can't interrupt, and most of the rest of them with him. I can't wait here. There's things I have to do if you won't." She gave him one last, sharp glance. "But you – you go and tell him what I've come here to say when you can! He'll listen! He'll know about patterns. See that you do!"

Lord Vetinari had nodded, but promised nothing and said nothing as the famous senior witch got up on creaky knees and bent, skinny legs and hobbled her way out of his office. As she left, Drumknott reentered and watched her go.

"A profitable conversation, m'lord?" The secretary inquired when she had clacked her way down the stairs and was out of hearing range.

"I'm afraid not," the Lord Vetinari who lived shook his head and sat back down. "Mostly the ravings of an old woman - doesn't like the railway and all that. I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more impressive."

 _The Vetinari who watched, thought. Patterns. Magic. Iron and excavations creating some new patterns, maybe disrupting others. Change coming. A world out of balance._

 _She had been trying to tell him something important and he hadn't wanted to listen. She had known he wasn't hearing or heeding her, and she had left . . . ._

A blue waterfall of sand loomed in Vetinari's vision, filling it with silicon facets, then shrinking, fading . . . .

And he was back in the great chamber of hourglasses, holding his lifetimer in his hands. The vision had been so real . . . .

BECAUSE IT WAS REAL, Death told him.

"Was it?" He shook the hourglass gently because he could not shake himself. "I sounded like an idiot."

THE FAULT IS NOT ENTIRELY YOURS. YOU HAVE BEEN UNDER THEIR INFLUENCE.

"Not 'entirely' mine is not reassuring. That means it was _somewhat_ mine. The most powerful witch in the Disc travelled all the way from Lancre to give me a warning and I thought she was no better than a crazy old woman."

YOU DID NOT CONVEY HER MESSAGE TO ARCHCHANCELLOR RIDCULLY.

"No." Nor could he tell Death he had meant to do so and hadn't gotten around to it. Death would have known that for the lie that it was. Vetinari called on the wizards of Unseen University only when he had some need for them, not when they might have some need _from_ him. In fact, that was how he treated most individuals. He used them and did not allow them to use him. It worked for him. Yet somehow the Auditors of Reality had found their way in. How did they manage that?

I AM NOT ALLOWED TO GIVE YOU ALL THE ANSWERS. FOR SOME THINGS YOU MUST SEEK INSIDE YOURSELF.

"I suppose that goes for telling us how to defeat the Auditors?"

EVEN I CANNOT SEE EVERYTHING. MY LIMITATIONS ARE GREAT.

"Then I suppose we shall have to hope the Auditors' limitations are greater. There is a _chance_ we will win, isn't there?"

THERE ARE ALWAYS CHANCES.

[* * * *]


	10. Trouble

Two days since the big story had broken and the city hadn't torn itself apart in riots yet. What were the odds of that?

Vimes had to give Vetinari some credit, even if he did currently have the liveliness of a paperweight. The Ankh-Morpork he'd built up over the past twenty years worked. The Patricians of Vimes' youth had been lucky to maintain order for twenty minutes, and that was when they were fully alive. Of course, having a name like Mad Lord Snapcase and hauling out the trebuchets against anyone who got in your way didn't help . . . .

The Watch caught a lucky break in the _Inquirer_ being the first paper to report Vetinari's alleged death. Anyone with a grain of sense knew that the _Inquirer_ was the raggiest rag in town – entertaining, but hardly trustworthy. There were always fools who would believe anything if they saw it in print, but fewer now than when the printing press was brand new. The article in the _Ankh-Morpork Allnews_ was a bit more problematic, but William de Worde's _Ankh-Morpork Times_ had stuck with the facts, or at least the alleged facts. The truth was bad enough. The heads of the Guilds were demanding answers, and Vimes, Drumknott and Ridcully had none to give. If Vetinari didn't make up his mind to live or die soon, Ankh-Morpork would have a new Patrician.

 _And what will you do then, Sammy Boy?_

Vimes had made his share of enemies in the Guilds. Would a new Patrician elected by them allow him to stay on as Commander? He'd built the Watch into a respected force, but when it all came down to it, he served at the city's pleasure, and the city was one fickle trollop. At times, Vimes could swear he felt the hot breath of Lady Luck on his neck as she got ready to make one more roll of the dice. He was getting that feeling now. Nothing worse than the emergency at the Palace had happened yet, but the chips were piling up on the table. He wished he knew where to place his own wager. For right now it was riding on Vetinari, but . . . . what if Vetinari really was dead?

The Specials had already answered the call up, but their numbers were nearly as thinned as the Watch Regulars. That was the trouble with having the damned railroad. People could go anywhere they wanted to between Ankh-Morpork, Sto Lat, Quirm and halfway to Bonk, cheaply and easily, so that's what they were doing every chance they got. Nearly a third of the Specials he'd been able to call on during the whole Koom Valley business were out of town, and of the ones that were in town, several had been no-shows. Mr. Boggis was busy preparing to represent the Thieves' Guild at the upcoming emergency Rats Chamber session, and a bigger loss was the Librarian. Vimes thought that was understandable – the wizards must have him working overtime on the Vetinari problem – but the Watch needed all the hands it could get, and the Librarian had what amounted to four of them. Clacks messages had gone out to summon the extra officers they could. It would have to be enough, soon enough.

[* * * *]

"You got the stuff?" Smalldab whispered

Oozy Walters opened his coat to reveal a brown glass bottle of C.M.O.T. Dibbler's Finest Patent Fire Prufing & Flame Retardante Solution. An angry mob had destroyed the factory and most of the bottles, but the few flasks that remained were in high demand among Ankh-Morpork's small arsonist community. The stuff went up even faster than coal oil in a swamp dragon's drinking trough.

Day two of the Smuts' Reign of Terror had not gone well. It turned out that the first bookbinder's they tried sneaking into had a team of attack-trained Lipwigzers on guard dog duty. At the second bookbindery, Smalldab still wasn't certain what happened, but they'd become separated from one another. Three Pie Mikky had all the matches and when they found him, he was matchless, babbling incoherently, and sprouting banana skins from some unlikely places. It had taken Smalldab an hour to get Three Pie down to the Syb1and scrum up some more matches. Now the daylight was running out fast. Smalldab didn't want to be on the streets after dark. Rumor had it around the city that was when the Blackboard Monitor came out. Smalldab didn't know what a Blackboard Monitor was and he didn't intend to find out.

Nothing could go wrong this time, though. This was 'third time's the charm' city. No guard dogs, a clear shot at a storage area full of flammables in boxes. This was going to be the book burning to end all book burnings. Smalldab kept his face peering through the window and reached back to get the bottle of Dibbler Solution from Oozy.

For some reason, what landed in his hand felt more like a banana . . . .

[* * * *]

"There you are, Sir," Mr. Percival Hawksworth of Mason and Hawksworth Jewelers handed his customer the box following a thorough examination of its contents. "I trust you will find the workmanship satisfactory?"

"Perfect!" One advantage to his former careers as a swindler and unlicensed thief, Moist knew quality work when he saw it, and he knew the locations of the best jewelers in the city. These jewelers, in their small shop on Sheer Street, were very, very good indeed. He paid the remainder of the purchase price and made haste out of the store.

Moist held on to the box as he walked toward Scoone Avenue – he knew a thing or thousand about pickpockets too. When he had told Effie and Harry King that the pretty item he'd ordered for Adora would be ready in the nick of time, even he hadn't intended it to be quite this nickish, and he preferred to avoid nicks all together. But he was a fast walker and the streets had largely emptied of the day's traffic – he could make up for the delay Mr. Hawksworth had apologized to him for, needed to put the finishing touches on the order.

He was almost walking fast enough to cause the gigantic stone hands that reached out from an alleyway, closed over his mouth and pinned his arms to his sides to miss . . . .

Runs with the Grass Mouse and Of the Rock the Vein had hidden under the eaves of the tailor shop when the strangers invaded their alley. Life in Ankh-Morpork was not a new paradise for goblins from the countryside who couldn't speak the language and didn't know the streets or customs. Everything frightened them in this strange, noisy, too open, too big place. The alley had been their refuge, empty of everything except some bits of broken furniture and piles of lint, the sort of place a goblin could expect to live in. But when the troll showed up with the oddly dressed dwarf and three humans, the two goblins had fled the short distance to the tailor shop without being seen. From the eaves they watched as the other human, the one in the gold-colored suit, was pulled into the alleyway by the troll and beaten by the humans and the dwarf until he stopped moving. They watched as the five strangers stuffed him into a sack and carried him away. Then the alley was empty again, but Runs with the Grass Mouse and Of the Rock the Vein did not feel safe living in it anymore. They remained where they were, hiding under the eaves and wondering what they should do next.

[* * * *]

The carts containing the pieces of makeshift stage, flags and curtains had parked along the side streets in the vicinity of Sator Square, each with someone to stand guard over it – this was Ankh-Morpork after all. Through dozens of secret byways word had gone out to those who now removed from places of concealment uniforms of a design not seen in decades. In homes and scattered hiding places across the city, the uniforms were pressed, the boots and weapons polished. The new old order prepared to rise, and if History came ahead of schedule by a few weeks, what did it matter? History always did that sort of thing.

From his garret overlooking the Square, Lord Snike quivered with excitement as the clandestine preparations moved into place. At this time tomorrow, he would make himself the city's new ruler. Tomorrow the stage would be set, in every sense of the word, and the mob would bow, or cower, before him, Lord Melborn Snike, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Destiny called and he would answer. Over thirty years of hated exile for his family, decades of humiliation, would be laid to rest at long last. Only a few petty details remained to be taken care of.

"Have Albite and the others returned with my example yet?" He asked.

"Yes, m'lord," Witworth said. "It's just that . . . ."

"Come, come, Witworth, we've been over this already. History isn't made by He Who Hesitates. You don't make a jammy dodger without breaking a few jams, eh?"

"I don't think that . . . ."

Lord Snike stared Witworth into silence.

"Tell Albite I want to make sure _this_ jam is broken – permanently. Just like we rehearsed. The mob needs to know just what sort of an iron fist in a velvet glove they're dealing with now. We have to let them know that if they play along, if they do their part, they can go on about their lives in peace. But if they try to give me any trouble, they'll see what can happen to them then. Now go."

Witworth got.

Lord Snike went back to looking down at Sator Square through the crack in the curtains. Miles and miles of it, he thought, and soon it would all be his.

[* * * *]

1 Nickname for the Lady Sybil Free Hospital, funded by Samuel Vimes and run by Dr. John 'Mossy' Lawn. It has the distinction of not only being the hospital where the residents of Ankh-Morpork go to get better, but where they actually stand a decent chance of doing so. And no part of it was ever, ever designed in any way, shape or form by Bergholt Stuttley Johnson.


	11. Missing Moist

In their home on Scoone Avenue, Adora Belle Dearheart peered for another second through the window and allowed the curtains to fall back into place. Spiky, solid steel Mitzy 'Pretty Lucretia' shoe heels clacked across the hardwood floor of the entryway toward the dining room, where a candlelit and very romantic table had been set for two. Moist knew exactly what time she had been expecting him home for the start of their special evening together and it wasn't like him to be late, at least not for her. But here it was, ten minutes past their agreed upon welcome home kiss, here _she_ was, dressed in the sexiest grey and red evening gown she could induce the very best dressmakers in Ankh-Morpork to make, with a new hairstyle it had taken Mr. Teazy Weazy Fornacite two whole hours to put into place – and no Moist.

She was annoyed. Five minutes after that, she was angry. She kept on pacing between the entryway window and the dining room, tapping a staccato pattern into the floors. But when Moist was no longer ten minutes or fifteen minutes late, she stopped being annoyed and angry. When he was an hour late, she reached for the bell pull she reserved for calling the goblins who lived in the attic and top rafters of the house with a hand that was shaking in spite of her best efforts.

Of the Twilight the Darkness appeared first, as usual, with a wary expression. Mr. and Mrs. Crossley had been given the evening off once the dinner preparations had been completed, and the goblins had been encouraged in advance to grant Moist and Adora a bit of privacy on this special night. But now she asked Of the Twilight the Darkness and the other goblins to go out and find her husband.

In the attic, the small private clacks tower thumped and thudded and sent out its semaphore signal to the Grand Trunk. Lights flashed. Across the city, dozens, then hundreds of goblins fanned out through the streets, across rooftops, under awnings and overhangs - and one of those goblins found Runs with the Grass Mouse and Of the Rock the Vein. Ten minutes after that, the clacks towers of the city flashed again, back to Scoone Avenue and back to the private tower in the attic.

Five minutes after that, Adora Belle Dearheart was making her way up the street to Number One Scoone Avenue faster than she had ever run anywhere.

[* * * *]

Sam and Sybil Vimes had just sat down for a well deserved dinner, with Young Sam eating separately in the kitchen as usual, when the front doorbell rang followed by an insistent hammering on the door itself.

"What the hell?" Sam swore, ripping the napkin off from around his neck. Sybil shrugged – marriage to the Commander of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch had made her blasé about interruptions. But neither of them was blasé as they heard the sound of Willikens opening the front door followed immediately by the clack-clack-clack noise of the metal heels on marble tile and a familiar, angry, loud female voice telling the butler,

" _I need to speak to Commander Vimes –_ _ **now!**_ _"_

Vimes was out of his chair and in the front hall before Willikens could even utter a response, and he was momentarily dumbfounded by what he saw. He'd recognized right away the sound of the speaker, and her shoes. Adora Belle Dearheart normally dressed to kill in terms of footwear – Vimes was still dodging a complaint from the Thieves' Guild over the season-ending limp she'd given one of their purse snatchers. But tonight she stood in his hall wearing a gauzy, tight-fitting act of public indecency that would have made Constable Visit cover his eyes1, and she was white as a sheet and shaking with rage. She was also breathing heavily enough that getting out the words to Willikens must have taken some effort. She had to swallow before she could say anything else.

"Commander Vimes, my husband has been kidnapped!"

. . . . which was how Sam Vimes less than an hour later came to be standing near an alleyway two blocks south of Sheer Street with a half dozen goblins while Captain Angua and Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom combed the area for clues.

Of the Twilight the Darkness, a goblin Vimes recognized from the Low King's train journey to Bonk, had taken charge of questioning and translating for the two goblins who had apparently witnessed the abduction. Vimes was glad for the help – he had never seen a more miserable and shy pair of creatures in his life. Runs with the Grass Mouse and Of the Rock the Vein were crouched so far back into the tailor shop eaves that if Vimes did not have the Summoning Dark's gift of night vision, he wouldn't have been able to see them at all. As is, he could barely hear the tinny, walnut-rumbling voices and the story that Of the Twilight the Darkness was coaxing out of the traumatized pair.

None of it made any sense, and yet the two goblins' story was clear enough. They'd seen a man in a gold suit – and Vimes knew of only one person in the city who wore bright gold suits – dragged into an alleyway and held with his arms pinned and his mouth covered by a huge troll while three humans and a dwarf in grag costume beat him unconscious. Then the gang of five had carried their prisoner off in a sack to who knows where. The grags had a grudge against Moist all right – he was on the same dark dwarves' hit list that included Vimes himself. But since when did a dark dwarf work with trolls? And what was a deep delver like that doing in Ankh-Morpork in full grag dress less than a year after the rest of its kind had gotten their tails kicked from Bonk to somewhere past Fourecks by the City Watch, the Low Queen and the progressive dwarves?

Vimes thought he recognized the goblins' description of one of the humans, too, a member of the Assassins' Guild by the name of Mr. Sorville, and that didn't make any sense either. Assassins inhumed people all right, but they didn't get involved in abductions or crimes by committee, and it was Vimes' understanding per Vetinari that the Assassins' Guild wouldn't accept any contracts on Moist because of a previous agreement with the late Topsy Lavish.

It was enough to make Vimes' head want to hurt if he gave it permission. It was also the last thing he needed while Vetinari was still on the slab at Unseen University and a Guild conclave was getting ready to meet in the Rats Chamber and play What's My Patrician? Damn it, of all the people Vimes did _not_ need to have to worry about right now, it was Moist von Lipwig. Aside from the fact that Vimes had been coming around to liking the man, Moist was also one of the most important public figures in the whole damn city. So what was an individual who was Postmaster-General of Ankh Morpork _and_ Vice Chairman of the Royal Bank _and_ Master of the Mint _and_ Something-or-Other-Important for the Railway doing wandering around without a bodyguard? Lipwig was a good man in a fight, but he wasn't any match for grags, trolls andassassins working together on an ambush. He'd become too valuable to the city to let him get snatched up this way. Vimes was going to have a word with Vetinari about that, if he ever got the chance.

"It's as they're telling us, Mister Vimes," Captain Angua said as she came back toward the goblin witnesses' hiding spot. "I'd recognize Lipwig's scent anywhere, and there was definitely a troll, a dwarf, and a trio of humans here with him."

"Can you follow it?"

"I'll do my best." Angua padded back over to a half-concealed section at the middle of the alleyway. She never liked to have anyone see her transformation into full wolf form, but at least Vimes and Cheery could look after her Watch armor and equipment while she had to leave them behind. Vimes made sure to avert his face. He could see in the dark just a little _too_ well sometimes. As Angua took off on the scent trail, Cheery called Vimes over to look at something she'd found.

"I think it's a jewelry box, Sir," she said, handing him a plush but crushed and forlorn looking object. "Looks like the troll might have stepped on it."

Vimes examined the flattened box carefully. He recognized the maker's mark on the cover.

"Mason and Hawksworth," he whistled. "Not cheap. I've bought a few things for Sybil there. Well, I suppose if you're working four jobs . . . ." He leaned over into the light, so Cheery would be able to see the contents as he opened what was left of the box. Inside, also partially flattened, was what must have been a gorgeous platinum and gold brooch just a few hours earlier. It was in the shape of a railway spike, with a gemmed circlet around it inscribed with a name, 'Ad ra'. Now two of the gems had come loose from the setting and rattled around in the box, and the backing pin was squashed and broken. Vimes felt a lump and something like the start of a hot anger in his throat.

"For Mr. Lipwig's wife, Sir?" Cheery asked.

Vimes nodded. Sybil had whispered to him back at their mansion that tonight was the Lipwigs' anniversary – she had a better knowledge of such trivia than any Society column reporter's filing system. That explained Adora's less-than-concealing outfit, and now Vimes was going to have to hand the woman the remains of what might be the last gift her husband ever bought her if the Watch couldn't find him damn fast. Vimes would rather be skinned alive than have anyone outside of a close circle of Watch officers know what a sentimental softy he could be, but someone was going to pay for this!

Vimes felt a slight pressure on his shoulder and realized Of the Twilight the Darkness had perched over him to get a look at the jewelry box and its contents too. The goblin said nothing, but the look on his face mirrored Vimes' own feelings at that moment. Of the Twilight the Darkness jumped and climbed back up to the eaves, chattering that grinding-walnut chatter to the other three goblins he'd brought with him. Then he called into the shadows to coax Runs with the Grass Mouse and Of the Rock the Vein out of their hiding spot.

"Nothing more we can do here," Of the Twilight the Darkness chattered down to Vimes. "We take them with us back to the Lipwig place if we can get them to come."

"Don't all goblins have some sort of clan?" Vimes asked. "How did these two wind up here all on their own?"

Of the Twilight the Darkness' expression was grim.

"No more clan left. Have to take them into ours. Their clan all eaten."

"Eaten?!"

Of the Twilight the Darkness nodded.

"Taste just like chicken," the goblin smiled angrily. "So I'm told."

Vimes felt the hot lump of anger in his throat get swallowed up by an even harder cold rage. The sign of the Summoning Dark on his wrist glowed with his wrath.

 _When the hell are we going to get better than this?_

Conditions _were_ getting better for the goblins. They were considered a people now, and not just a form of vermin. Vimes and his wife had been part of making that change happen, but if the shy goblins' clan had been killed and devoured more than a couple of years ago, the act couldn't even be considered illegal.

"Do what you can for them, Of the Twilight the Darkness, and thanks," Vimes growled through a voice grown tight. "Please thank them for being a great help to the City Watch. Tell them . . . tell them they will be receiving a reward for their valiant service." Vimes wasn't sure what a goblin would consider a great reward but he intended to make certain that Runs with the Grass Mouse and Of the Rock the Vein received it.

"Will do that," Of the Twilight the Darkness nodded again. "See you get back Mr. Slightly Damp and return him to us."

"On it," Vimes told him.

Lipwig wouldn't be returned unharmed any more than the brooch could be returned unharmed – it was too late for that. With a dark dwarf involved, the Watch would be lucky not to find the man burned to ash or hacked into pieces. Vimes wasn't going to tell Adora that, but he suspected she knew it already. She'd heard the goblins' description of the kidnappers by clacks before she'd charged up the street to his residence after all.

Vimes could only hope Sybil was providing some Ramkin calmness and consolation to Moist's wife right now. He'd insisted that Adora Belle remain back at the Vimes' mansion for the time being. Vimes had spent years assassin-proofing and burglar-proofing his home, and in reinforcing the cellar after the delvers had found a weakness down there during the Koom Valley business. Next to the Pseudopolis Yard Watch House it was now the safest place in the whole city, and a lot more comfortable. Vimes wasn't about to let Adora go missing too. Her roles as head of the Grand Trunk and the Golem Trust made her nearly as big a security nightmare as her husband. Vimes was going to have to do something about _that_ too. Adora had been anxious to go along on the search for her missing spouse, and had used a few words with him that could peel paint, but she'd acquiesced. Vimes was glad that at least one of the couple was so level-headed and reasonable.

The goblins were still convincing their hidden shy folk to come back with them to Scoone Avenue and Vimes and Cheery were just scooping up Angua's armor and clothing when Angua herself returned.

 _Too soon, damn it_.

Vimes and Cheery stood aside and turned their heads while the she-wolf ran behind the stack of broken furniture, transformed and slid back into her clothing.

"Lost them at Holofernes and New Bridge, Sir. Sorry. Too much traffic too recently."

"Not your fault, Captain," Vimes sighed, slipping the box with the broken brooch into his belt pouch. "Looks like we're in for a long, long night."

 _Where the hell are you, Lipwig? And what's it going to take to bring you back?_

[* * * *]

Adora Belle Dearheart stared out another entry window through another set of curtains at the darkness and shivered.

"Are you chilly, Ma'am?" Willikens asked from a discreet distance. "I can bring you a shawl if you like."

Adora had already turned down Lady Sybil's solicitous offer of refreshments and a shoulder to cry on. Lady Sybil then tactfully withdrew to her study on the warmer second floor of the mansion after imploring Adora to join her there or at least to try to get some rest in the guest room she'd made ready for the poor woman. Lady Sybil knew Adora – she knew practically everybody worth knowing – and their husbands' illustrious public careers meant that they often ran into one another at Society and Public functions. But Adora was so much younger than Lady Sybil, so much more reserved, there was not much help Sybil could give at a terrible time like this. So Adora remained alone with her thoughts in the chilly front hall, watching and waiting, in an evening dress that had been meant for a very different kind of evening.

"Mr. Willikens . . . ."

"Just 'Willikens,' Ma'am. Can I bring you something?"

"Yes, thank you." Adora wrapped her arms around herself and shivered again. "Could you please get Lady Sybil to come down here for a minute? I need to ask her something about the view from this window."

"If it's something I can-" Willikens began to respond to the puzzling request, only to be halted by a gesture from Adora Belle.

"No. It needs to be Lady Sybil, Willikens." Her face remained worried, but she gave him the slightest of smiles. "Please?"

Willikens stood erect, straightened up his immaculate vest, and gave her a bob of his head.

"Of course, Ma'am. I'll return with her promptly."

Willikens had made it up to the second floor and the entrance to Lady Sybil's study before he heard the front door of the mansion slam shut. He rushed over to the study window at the same time Lady Sybil leaped up from her chair and drew apart the curtains.

"She runs very well for a woman in high heels, doesn't she?" Lady Sybil observed.

[* * * *]

1 Constable Visit-the-Ungodly-with-Explanatory-Pamphlets, it should be said, did not require much provocation to cover his eyes. His example was enough to inspire Corporal Nobby Nobbs to take up religion briefly as an excuse to sleep on the job.


	12. Patterns Unseen

"Magic is everywhere on the Disc," Albert explained as he, Lu-Tze, Ronnie, Susan and Vetinari pored over a map of the known continents and features. "In some places it's stronger than others, it can flow along the pathways we call ley lines. It can pool and ebb and form patterns in the same way Time forms patterns." The wizard and the Sweeper exchanged glances of agreement.

"But can there be such a thing as an anti-magic pattern? Is iron capable of creating such a thing?" Vetinari asked.

"We-ell," Albert considered, sniffling into a handkerchief. "Some types of magic are vulnerable to iron and some types are not. It all depends on the magic. Iron doesn't really flow, as such either. It tends to remain in nice big lumps right where it is, with minor amounts being dug up here and there, and getting scattered here and there as people use it. Iron doesn't form patterns."

"Until we dig up enough of it and distribute it across the world's surface in a way that isn't purely random," Vetinari stated, tracing a line on the map between Ankh-Morpork and Uberwald with his finger.

"The railroad tracks?" Susan murmured. "They're mostly steel and wood, not iron, aren't they? And there aren't enough of them to do much damage, are there?"

"Steel contains iron, and the rails are held together and held down to the ground by iron nails and iron spikes." Vetinari traced other lines, between Ankh-Morpork and Sto Lat and Quirm. "But there's more. Dwarves and humans have been mining more than just fat and treacle for hundreds of years. They mine the metals too, and pile up the mining wastes they consider too poor to process, the tailings, in huge amounts alongside the mines. Tailings don't contain much metal by miners' standards, but they do contain it, and there are many mines." _And how many foundries? How many forges and armories?_ "Taken all together, might they not form a pattern? A very big pattern?"

"They could . . . ." Albert said. "But something like that would be noticeable, I should think."

" _If_ someone _wanted_ to notice it, you mean," Susan added. "I work as a schoolteacher and you would not believe the things parents and administrators refuse to notice, even when you try telling them face to face. I have to use a megaphone!" This was especially true of one or two budding young psychopaths and their families Susan cited as examples. With some parents, the megaphone was not enough. They simply wouldn't believe that their little Johnny or Darla throwing the class pet down an incinerator chute was any indication that there might be A Problem. If the parents were paying a high enough school fee, Madame Frout, the director of the School of Learning Through Play, might take some convincing too.

"Honestly," Susan shook her head, "sometimes I even have to use THE VOICE."

Vetinari required all of his self-possession not to start a little at the sound. The last two words that came out of Miss Susan's mouth were in the VOICE of DEATH, but with a female tone. It was a sound entirely appropriate when coming from a tall skeleton with glowing eye sockets, an obsidian robe and a scythe. But it was shocking beyond measure out of the mouth of a pert, modestly and modernly dressed young woman.

"How did you do that?" He asked, fascinated.

"LIKE THIS."

THE VOICE cost her no effort as far as Vetinari could see.

"Can you do other things that your grandfather can do?"

"Practically everything," she shrugged. "The usual. Invisibility. Walking through walls. Stepping outside of time. Remembering the Past and the Future, but only if I have to. THE VOICE. The Look. That sort of thing."

"And . . . ?"

"Killing people? Yes. But again, only if I have to. Only if it's their time." She shifted her posture and the three pale stripes reappeared on her face. "Now if we can stop talking about me, and get back to the discussion of patterns?"

Lu-Tze was the next to speak.

"It is as you say." He took a long drag on one of his hand-made cigarettes. "If seeing what is obvious were so easy, everyone might be a Monk of History. The flow of Time is all around us, but how many observe it? We are looking at a map of the world, but if every deposit of iron were marked on it, would we see a pattern or only disconnected dots?" He gave Ronnie Soak a sidelong glance as he said this and Ronnie gave him back a wink.

"A witch would see it," Albert sniffled and sneezed, rolling up the map. "A witch wouldn't need one of these. The most powerful of 'em have an intuitive feel for the land better than any wizard's, much as I hate to admit it."

"A witch _did_ notice it," Vetinari sighed.

"Yes – Esmerelda Weatherwax, you said. That's right." Memory might have been Susan and Vetinari's strong point but it wasn't Albert's – at least not in all things. "So if the problem is one of pattern disruption or creation, it should be simple enough to fix. I can't go back to the Disc, and I don't think Mr. Vetinari can either, but that shouldn't be a problem for the rest of you." He nodded to Lu-Tze, Ronnie and Susan. "All you have to do is travel back there, find the disruptive or disrupted patterns, and convince people to alter them before they destroy the world."

"While fighting our way through maybe an army of Auditors who'll try to stop us." Susan didn't roll her eyes – she's come to despise that expression in others – but her voice clearly rolled _its_ eyes. "I'm glad it won't actually be a _problem_."

"I can think of something else that won't be a problem either," Ronnie Soak said to them all, while suddenly peering out a window of the Library in Death's House. Something in the way he said it caused them all to pause and lean over to see what he was seeing. "Finding them."

On the starry, dark plain around the House, hundreds of little grey robes full of nothing had them surrounded.

[* * * *]


	13. Gilded Guilt

Sleep was overrated, Vimes told himself, or there wouldn't be such a thing as Watch House coffee. If he'd built up a resistance to swamp dragon dribble since marrying Sybil, it was because his body had already schooled itself with a liquid that was black as a Shades real estate agent's heart, strong as Captain Carrot, and tougher to drink than the River Ankh. Pseudopolis Yard might not even have a proper coffee urn anymore, Vimes thought. It might just be the patina of year upon year of residue holding itself together in coffee urn shape to get the job done. Like he had to get the job done.

Too many hours were ticking by without leads that could be of any use. Worse, according to Angua, the route the kidnappers took had doubled back up from Sheer Street, and before crossing New Bridge they'd gone within a stone's throw of Pseudopolis Yard itself. Yet no one at the Watch House had noticed anything amiss outside. His officers had all been too busy with other tasks to stand around in front of the building and wonder why a grag, a troll and three humans were hurrying down the street together with a large sack. Vimes hadn't thought he'd regret allowing Sergeant Colon and Nobby Nobbs to go on a special detail 'guarding' one of Quirm's luxury beachside resorts, but now he did. The other members of the Watch might have grown a little tired of the way those two 'guarded' the headquarters and allegedly helped hold up its outer walls, but damn it all, _they'd_ have noticed a thing like that! Almost nothing conspicuous got by Nobby, even if he couldn't stuff it into one of his pockets.

Captain Carrot's evening visit to Lord Downey over at the Assassins' Guild had proved fruitless as well. Carrot was, in many respects, the best interrogator the Watch had, and certainly the most diplomatic. He had a talent for being obeyed, and somehow his own honesty rubbed off on others to the point that suspects just plain wanted to tell him the truth. But Lord Downey wasn't a suspect and anyway, he hadn't made it to the top of his Guild's heap – an alarmingly literal phrase at times – by being an easy read. Yes, Mr. Sorville was a member of the Guild. No, Lord Downey did not know Mr. Sorville's current whereabouts. No, the Guild was not branching out into other avenues of endeavor. Yes, the Guild was still honoring the late Mrs. Lavish's _a priori_ contract with them. And the Captain should by all means try one of the humbugs in the _blue_ dish. The peppermint candies in the yellow dish were undoubtedly stale, but the ones in the blue dish were excellent.

"I could tell he was nervous about something, Mister Vimes," Carrot reported. "But I couldn't tell what, and he was being honest about not knowing where Mr. Sorville was or what he was up to. Seemed more annoyed about it than anything. I shouldn't want to be in Mr. Sorville's shoes if it was him the goblins saw."

If Mr. Sorville was a problem for the Assassins' Guild, the Guild would be certain to take care of it, and him, before the Watch had a chance of interviewing their suspect . . . .

Lovely.

Lady Luck was laughing at him all right, laughing at them all. Vimes had slow days where he'd wished for a crime, any crime, to make himself feel his usual sense of purpose. Now he had not one but two of the most puzzling crimes of his entire career to solve, with lives riding on both, and him getting nowhere fast.

One thing he was _not_ going to do was give up. Sam Vimes did not give up. Ever.

Although part of him felt like doing just that as Constable Visit walked into his office to make a report on what he'd found out in his interview with the proprietors of Mason and Hawksworth Jewelers.

 _I don't have Fred and Nobby, I don't have Sergeant Detritus or Corporal Bluejohn, ditto Sally, Mr. A.E. Pesimal, and too many others to mention. But I've still got Constable Visit-the-Ungodly-and-Anyone-Else-Who-Can-Stand-Being-Bored-For-Two-Hours-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets . . . ._

There oughta be a law, Vimes thought.

"Well, Constable?"

"I went to Mr. Hawksworth's as you asked, Sir," Constable Visit saluted. "Mr. Percival Hawksworth states that Mr. Lipwig called in at his store at approximately 4:30 p.m. and left at approximately five minutes to 5:00 p.m. and . . . ."

The Constable's speaking voice broke off as Captain Angua entered Vimes' office with an expression on her face that Vimes had come to know well. The bridge of her nose wrinkled up and down as she sniffed the air in the room. She was on the scent of something, and it became apparent that the something was on Constable Visit. To the evangelical Omnian's horror, she began sniffing around his shoulders and then his forearms.

"Sir, I really must pro-"

Vimes whistled for him to keep quiet and still using one of the Night Watch's prearranged signals that every trainee learned. Angua finished her sniffing and gave the Constable an almost accusatory look.

"Where've you been, Visit? Where did you pick up the smells that are on you?"

"Just to Mr. Hawksworth's as the Commander asked!" the affronted Constable snapped back. "He keeps his apartment above the shop, and was happy to help with our inquiries."

"I doubt it," Angua growled. "Sir," she said to Vimes, "it's the smell of one of the kidnappers. I'm sure of it. Not very fresh, but Visit's picked it up from somewhere – the jeweler's maybe?"

Did they finally have the lead they'd been looking for?

"Let's check it out," Vimes said, standing up and reaching for his sword and helmet. "Get there as fast as you can, Captain," he gestured to Angua. "We'll be right behind you. Visit, we're going back to that jewelry store and I want you to retrace your steps exactly. Captain Carrot, hold down the fort?"

"Yessir, Mister Vimes," Carrot nodded. "Good luck, Sir!"

[-]

"You did _**what**_?"

Sam Vimes thought he had already been as angry as he could get for one night, but as he glared at the quivering figure of Mr. Percival Hawksworth in front of him, he knew he was wrong. Most days it paid for him to play the 'good copper' with people he questioned. He could be the soul of sympathy if it helped him get information out of someone. But tonight he was in no mood to pretend sympathy for this . . . _accessory_ , and he made sure the jeweler knew it.

"I d-didn't realize . . . ." Mr. Hawksworth babbled. "It was just the standard request . . ."

Lipwig had been set up all right. Apparently the already exorbitant sums Mason and Hawksworth commanded for their work wasn't enough to satisfy both partners. For an additional payment – from an interested third party – Mr. Hawksworth would delay completion of a customer's order so that the third party might have the perfect opportunity to 'accidentally' run into the customer not far from the shop at a prearranged date and time. Vimes recalled his own encounter with a petitioner who wanted some favor or other from the Duke of Ankh shortly after he'd purchased something from the jeweler for Sybil.

"And do you accept these little extra commissions from the Thieves' Guild too?" Angua smiled very non-sweetly while gripping the man's shoulder hard enough to make him wince.

"No! I sw-swear!"

Vimes would be questioning Mr. Boggis very closely about that. But in the meantime, they were no closer to finding Mason and Hawksworth's missing last customer of the day. Hawksworth hadn't bothered to verify the identity or purpose of the 'interested third party' in this case – the extra commission had been too good to turn down. Someone had been willing to go to a great deal of trouble and expense to grab the multi-professioned Moist von Lipwig at an opportune moment. The crime didn't have the feel of a dark dwarf attack, so maybe the worst hadn't happened, at least not yet. But there were too many other possibilities – none of them good. What was the gang's purpose – ransom? Robbing the Royal Bank or the Mint? Or the Post Office, since stamps had become such a valuable commodity? Blackmailing Adora Belle Dearheart into misusing the city golems or the clacks network? Too many questions and not enough answers.

"Visit," Vimes growled, "take Mr. Hawksworth here down to the station. I want him booked on every charge we can get. Captain Angua, you're with me."


	14. Nightmares out of the Past

As soon as Constable Visit had taken the protesting Percival down the block and out of sight, Vimes turned his back and allowed Angua the privacy to transform into wolf shape again in the shuttered jewelry store. The werewolf/captain took off down the street, now tracking the less fresh scent of the 'third party' who'd visited Hawksworth to pay him off a few hours before the abduction took place. Once again, she returned much too soon, when this trail crossed an intersection used by the multitudes.

"Sorry again, Sir," Angua grimaced. "Lost him at Brass Bridge this time."

Both trails vanished as they led toward the section of town that contained the largest, most important centers of power in Ankh-Morpork – the Patrician's Palace, Unseen University, most of the Guild Halls. That was where they ought to be looking, but it would be like searching for a needle in a field full of haystacks. The sun would be coming up soon. Another day closer to the Guild meeting and that field of haystacks tearing itself apart right around them to boot.

[-]

Vimes chewed his lower lip and was considering his next move when he heard a tiny voice shouting for his attention from above.

"Mister Vimes! Mister Vimes! Captain Angua!"

The smallest City Watch officer of all, the blue-skinned Nac Mac Feegle known as Wee Mad Arthur circled down toward Vimes and Angua on the back of a reluctant pigeon.

"What's up, W.M.?" Angua called. "Besides you?"

"Word from Captain Carrot!" Wee Mad Arthur brought his squab cab in for a landing in front of them. "Something's going on over at Sator Square and it looks like trouble! Crowd's gathering and some sort of construction going up! Strange men with weapons coming out of the woodworks! Officers needed! And Lady Sybil sent word that Mrs. Lipwig's done a runner!"

"What the hell?" _It never rains, but it tidal waves!_

"The Captain left Igor on desk at the Yard and is requesting backup at the Square, Mister Vimes!"

"Then we'd better get over there," Vimes barked. "It's the direction we were headed in anyway." Lady Luck wasn't just breathing down his neck tonight, she was hyperventilating . . . if the riots weren't even waiting until after the Guild conclave to start. As much as Vimes didn't want to abandon the search he was on, Captain Carrot was no alarmist, and trouble in Sator Square, the city's favorite protest spot, could mean a large number of dead or wounded if protests were allowed to get out of hand. He ought to know – he hadn't just read the histories of thirty eight years ago, he'd lived through them – twice.

How many officers did he and Carrot have available – fifty? Sixty? And maybe thirty or forty Specials on top of that? Half the number he'd had during the Koom Valley riots . . . .

It took valuable minutes to run back to Pseudopolis Yard, but Igor had a police coach waiting to take them to the scene at the Square while Wee Mad Arthur had flown on ahead via pigeonback. The coach driver was a rookie lance-constable, but a competent horse handler, thank the small gods, and able to weave the coach through the cascade of pedestrian and cart traffic getting in their way at this obscenely early hour. A crowd wasn't just streaming toward the ruckus, it was rivering.

 _What the demons started this? And_ what _construction project?_

Strange men with weapons coming out of the woodworks, Wee Mad Arthur had said . . . . Vimes and Angua adjusted their armor and checked their own weapons. The sun had risen enough that they could make out a mass of citizens converging on Sator Square – no strange soldiers among them so far. Just a whole bunch of eager Ankh-Morporkians willing to risk getting crushed, bashed or caught up in mayhem for the sake of a good spectacle. And the press, of course. Otto Chriek, the vampire photographer of the _Times,_ was always easy to spot, with his chalk white skin and stereotypical black-and-red opera cape. Vimes and Angua leapt out of the police coach and had to push their way past some of the spectators, Otto, and Sacharissa Cripslock, the _Ankh-Morpork Times_ ' star reporter before they could get close enough to the center of the action to see the so-called 'construction project.'

Overnight, a massive stage had sprung up as if out of nowhere on the Cham end of the Square, with a podium, and surrounding it a scaffolding on which heavy curtains and banners had been erected, and surrounding that, a quintet of tents. All bore heraldic symbols depicting a human fist grasping a small owl, the whole barred by crossed swords.

"Nice." Vimes muttered, and felt the Summoning Dark's tattoo tingling on his wrist, something it didn't usually do in broad daylight. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing erect too. Here might be the answer to who poisoned Lord Vetinari – someone was about to make an appearance on the city scene in a big, big way, a power play if ever Vimes saw one. The whole scenario was reminiscent of a few coup attempts he'd seen in his youth. This hadn't all sprung out of the woodworks overnight either. Such a coordinated piece of public theater had to be the work of months of planning – and it had all been pulled together here in the Square within hours, and right under the Watch's nose.

Vimes saw the broad shouldered figure of Captain Carrot towering and gesturing to him through the masses. His other officers dotted the crowd and were waiting for directions or for something to happen. But Carrot wasn't moving any closer toward Vimes. Instead, the tall officer was pointing and directing Vimes' attention to two golems who were clearing their own path through the crowd with goblins perched on their shoulders and a dark-haired woman in dark grey clothing marching with purpose between them.

"Well I guess we know where Adora Belle's got to," Vimes shouted over to Angua, who had also caught the signals from Carrot. "I'm going in – you keep watch from here and be ready for anything!"

Nobby Nobbs may have been nearly disqualified from the human race for shoving, but Vimes was no slouch himself when the need arose. Keeping his sword holstered and his shield strapped to his back, he did the breast stroke through this sea of humanity, dwarfity and trollity to get to where Adora and the golems and goblins were forcing their way forward toward the stage. The crowd frontmost was the thickest and he managed to catch up to her and make her aware of his presence. She'd changed from the gauzy evening gown to a padded leather clacks worker's outfit and she now sported a loaded crossbow and a facial expression that said she had every intention of using it.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Vimes yelled at her. "Why didn't you stay back at the house?"

"I'm here to get Moist," she snarled back, "and that's why! Now are you going to help me rescue him or do we have to do this without the Watch's assistance?"

"You'd damned well better have our help!" Vimes snarled right back. "That pop-bow of yours may work fine on humans and dwarves, but it can't do much against a troll! Neither can your golems if the troll is faster! You can't help Moist by getting yourself killed!" Vimes gave the woman somecredit for cool-headedness. She looked like she was considering what he'd just said. "What makes you think Moist is here?"

"Pump 19." Adora nodded toward one of the golems escorting her. "He used to be Moist's parole officer. I didn't know until he told me two hours ago, but he has a plate in his head with Moist's karmic signature on it – he knows where Moist is all the time. Vetinari had the plate put in there and never had it taken out even when Pump 19 was reassigned. Moist is here!"

"It Is True Commander," the golem said. "Mr. Lipvig Is Here, Very Near By. He Is Somewhere Behind The Stage."

"Him and how many others?" Vimes asked, drawing his sword and moving his shield into place.

"I Cannot Tell You That. I Only Know Mr. Lipvig's Location. I Cannot See Him, But I Can Sense Him." The golem's eyes glowed with the fire that burned inside his clay exterior. "I Hope We Will Be Able To Assist Him. His Safety Is My Concern."

 _Mine too,_ Vimes thought. _But just how many nasties are there between us and him? And how do we pull this off without getting him or ourselves killed?_

Vimes didn't have time to move past that thought as he heard the crowd's murmur increase in volume and saw the central curtain of the stage part. Showtime had arrived and with it, to Vimes' horror, an army of ghosts. The 'strangers with weapons' began marching out from behind the curtain each wearing a uniform he hadn't seen in over thirty years . . . or eight . . . .

. . . . and had hoped never to see again.

 _Lord Winder's soldiers . . . ._

 _Homicidal Lord Winder who died on the Glorious 25_ _th_ _of May . . . ._

"What the hell?" he heard himself asking.

A multitude of the Winder Guard, over one hundred strong from the look of it, were lining up on the stage and bringing up the rear, a man in Captain's markings – a bad egg that Vimes knew the smell of all too well – old `Mayonnaise' Quirke. Either Vimes had somehow travelled back into an alternate timeline again, or turfing out the bastard twice in one lifetime hadn't been enough to stop Quirke from popping up like the aftertaste of one of C.M.O.T. Dibbler's pies.

This couldn't be happening – but it was. The curtain hadn't finished revealing its surprises either. Another group of men in plain clothes – plain identical clothes – followed, maybe twenty in all, but Vimes recognized that look from the past too. If the hairs on the back of his neck had been prickling before, now they were trying to shoot straight out of his body and catch the next broomstick for Quirm. Vimes had assigned a group of Watch officers to a plainclothes division that he called Cable Street Particulars, but they were nothing like the secret police of Lord Winder's day. These new men onstage, though, had something of the old look, the coldness of the Cable Street Particulars of the past. These weren't just Particulars, these were _Unmentionables_. All they lacked were the leather aprons and the instruments he remembered seeing when he'd raided and burned down their nest of horrors the day before Winder's fall.

"Who are they?" Adora whispered to Vimes in the hush that had suddenly fallen over the crowd.

 _You don't want to know,_ Vimes thought. The nightmare kept on coming, but next was a new nightmare, unfamiliar to Vimes. As the last of the new/old Unmentionables took their places alongside the row of Winder Guards, one more figure strode out onto the stage, a man his own age, big, heavyset, with salt-and-pepper hair, beard and mustache, wearing a suit of purple crushed velvet striped with gold. This final arrival strode over to a podium and leered out at his expectant audience. With velvet-gloved hands he lifted a device attached to the podium that Vimes recognized as a wizardly invention – the tell-o-scope they called it – and as the man cleared his throat, the noise could be heard echoing out over all of Sator Square.

"People of Ankh-Morpork!" The man in purple velvet boomed. "A new day is dawning in this city!" – _city - city – city -_ reverberated the sound. "A hated tyrant has died" - _ied – ied – ied –_ "and I come before you" - _ou – ou – ou_ – "to restore order and make the city what it once was!" – _was – was – was_ –

" **Yer, what's that – a pesthole**?" Someone shouted back at the top of his lungs from just behind Vimes. 'Loud Halibut' Leo, the noisiest fishmonger in the city had enough boom to his voice that some of it even reached the tell-o-scope – _ole – ole – ole_.

The man at the podium ignored the interruption, but Vimes was pleased to see some of the Winder Guards looking nervous. That remark hadn't been in the script, and instead of a group of them diving into the crowd the way the old Winder Guard would have done to silence the offender, this lot hadn't been through enough dress rehearsals yet.

 _And you're expecting Captain Mayonnaise_ Quirke _to lead them?_ The inner Vimes grinned fiercely at the central man on the podium. Vimes might have been dismayed at their number and uniforms, but now he knew his Watch had a fighting chance. _Quirke wasn't competent enough to lead in a dance if he had a mannequin for a partner!_

The mob in Sator Square must have sensed blood in the water too. The podium speaker continued his speech, but some of the citizenry were shifting around, refusing to stay silent for him. The chattering had started up.

"As your new ruler," – _uler – uler – uler –_ "I will return Ankh-Morpork to the glories it hasn't seen in years!" _– ears – ears – ears – "_ I, Lord Melborn Snike _," – ike – ike – ike –_ "make this pledge!" – _edge – edge – edge –_

" **We like the city the way it is!"** – _is – is – is_ – Loud Leo, encouraged, bellowed again. A group of his fellow fishmongers and tradesmen began cheering, hooting and clapping him on. And now, while the Winder Guards still appeared uncertain what to do, the new Cable Street Particulars took the initiative, drawing weapons of their own and jumping off the stage and wading into the crowd toward the hecklers.

" **Oh no, you don't!** " Vimes roared, and rushed to join the fray as he heard his own shout repeating _– on't! – on't! – on't!_ He didn't have his shiniest armor or weapons on him, but he didn't need them. Everyone in this crowd recognized Commander Sam Vimes and began parting for him like a slab of butter hit with dragon breath. Or was it the pair of golems and the angry woman with the crossbow right behind him who was making them do that?

The speaker on the podium banged his fist down directly in front of the tell-o-scope and a deafening sound like an explosion rolled out across the Square, forcing even this crowd into silence once more. The new Particulars halted their advance to look back at the stage and Vimes, ears ringing, got ready to spring forward, but hesitated. The 'new ruler' of Ankh-Morpork held his fist up as if to threaten the mob with a sound barrage again, then leaned down toward the tell-o-scope, face twisted in rage.

"People of Ankh-Morpork," _–ork – ork – ork –_ "do **not** stir me to anger!" – _grr – grr – grr –_ "My intention is to serve you," – _ou – ou – ou –_ "but those who defy me will be shown no mercy!" – _ercy – ercy – ercy_ As he said these words, he stood back from the tell-o-scope and flashed out with his fist toward a curtain on the right side of the stage. On cue, that curtain dropped to reveal at once a pair of figures that brought back the nightmare element all over. Standing on the stage was an enormous and unfamiliar troll with as menacing a scowl as any Vimes had ever seen. But it was not the troll that caused sounds of dismay to issue from all around the Square – it was the other figure. Dangling like a Hogswatch ornament from a pair of shackles clutched in the troll's massive fist was an unmoving, bedraggled man in a bloodstained gold suit.

Vimes heard Adora's sharp intake of breath beside him and for a split second he saw absolute panic in her eyes. But in another second the panic was replaced by an emotion that the Summoning Dark itself wouldn't have wanted to run into in a back alleyway. Before she could target her crossbow on Lord Snike, he had already strode across the stage to grab the unconscious prisoner's head by the hair and yank up his face for all the crowd to see. Lord Snike might not have even noticed the crossbow pointing at him, but Adora couldn't risk hitting his victim. And yes, there could be no doubt now who that victim was – he'd been beaten bloody, given a split lip and one eye was so swollen it probably couldn't have opened even if he was responsive, but the prisoner was Moist von Lipwig alright. It was apparent from the growing murmur of the crowd that it recognized him and it didn't like what it saw any more than Vimes did.

Lord Snike, oblivious to the sudden mood shift in Sator Square, gloated over his gold-suited hostage and began to speak again, but this time at a distance from the podium and its magical voice enhancer, and Vimes, sword in hand, suddenly had a gleam of inspiration.

"Adora," he yelled over the sound of the speech, "hit the tell-o-scope!"

"What?" she yelled back, fearful to take her eyes off anything that was happening to her husband.

"That loud-speaker thingy! The one on the podium! Do it now if your aim's good enough! Now!"

As Lord Snike continued to talk, "- and this is what shall happen," – _pen – pen – pen_ – "to all who oppose" – _pose – pose – pose_ – an angry-beyond-measure Adora Belle Dearheart took careful aim at the tell-o-scope and sent her crossbow bolt straight at it.

 _ **BBBWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMM!**_

The result was even better than Vimes could have hoped for. He had already braced for the shock wave of sound that would catch Lord Snike and the troll as well as everyone else off guard, but even he couldn't have counted on what the magical device did next. Instead of shattering, the tell-o-scope was durable and elastic enough that it bounced off the podium and into the crowd, still working all the way and booming enough noise to turn the situation into total chaos. Now the would-be Patrician couldn't have made himself heard even if he hadn't been crouched over with both gloved hands covering his ears. Deafened but determined, the Commander of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch vaulted over and through the remaining groups of spectators to rush the stage.

The soldiers of this new Winder Guard might not have been ready for action, but the City Watch officers were and Vimes had made sure every one of 'em – even Constable Visit – could fight like bastards when they had to. Carrot and Angua had already been headed toward the stage as soon as Snike's giant minion had made its appearance. Now the rest of the Watch followed their Commander's lead, with Adora and the golems charging toward the enemy as well. They were not alone. The Winder Guard and the Unmentionables didn't have time to gather themselves before the mob was on them like a pack of Librarians. Vimes was clambering up toward Moist as someone pelted the troll in the face with a rotten tomato, and then the full barrage began. Vimes didn't have to try to cut Moist's shackles loose from the troll's grasp – the giant tossed his prisoner aside as he fended off cabbages, rocks, bricks and anything else the spectators could throw with the aim of the sincere. All the while, the tell-o-scope bounced and rolled around Sator Square amplifying every sound that got near it, and most of those sounds were boos, insults, and shouts of anger directed at Lord Snike and his crew.

Vimes fended off one of the Cable Street Particulars with the edge of his sword and was smashing away two others with his shield as a fourth went down to another of Adora's crossbow bolts. With the golems moving between him and Snike and Snike's troll, Vimes just managed to scoop up the unconscious Postmaster before a dwarf battle-axe embedded itself in the wooden platform where Moist's head had been seconds earlier. The grag didn't get a chance for a second swing before the goblins were all over him – literally. The goblins didn't appear to have any weapons except their teeth, but the delver was forced back with an undwarf-like scream as every part of him not covered by micromail and leather came under assault.

"We've got them outnumbered, Sir!" Carrot called out to Vimes cheerfully as he moved in to provide cover for his commander. "There's only three of them to every one of us!"

Off to one side, Vimes saw members of the Winder Guard go flying left and right from an unseen assailant – and he'd bet money that Watch Specialist Wee Mad Arthur was down there somewhere having more fun at fighting an army than any of them. Any fifteen men couldn't outnumber one Nac Mac Feegle, and as the tell-o-scope continued to shuffle around the square, he heard it amplifying the Feegle's voice:

"Crivens, ye scuggans!" – _gans! – gans! – gans!_ – "We'll . . . ." and whether the tell-o-scope had bounced away or was breaking or was just too embarrassed to repeat what Wee Mad Arthur had yelled next1, it began cutting out and producing only choppy bits of noise, although one or two words came out loud and clear:

"Bugrit!" _– rit! – rit! – it!_

"I . . . 'ean . . .Woof!" – _oof! – oof! – oof!_

The sound barrage had done its work, and the howling mob was helping the Watch do the rest. The Winder Guards had started to run, but Vimes couldn't maneuver well enough while carrying a wounded man to see what was going on behind him.

"Better get Mr. and Mrs. Lipwig to safety, Commander!" Angua growled. "We'll watch your back!"

Vimes nodded and allowed Adora, the goblins, Sergeant Cheery and the City Watch's own golem, Constable Dorfl to guard his front. They weaved and forced their way through the mass of people to the river side of the square, where half a dozen police carriages waited among the cabs and carts.

"Dorfl," Vimes panted as Cheery opened the door to one of the carriages and motioned for Adora and the goblins to climb in, "go to the Lady Syb – get Dr. Lawn and bring him to Number One Scoone as fast as you can!" He looked down at the injured man in his arms. "Tell him to bring the big bag!"

"We're not taking Mr. Lipwig straight to the hospital, Sir?" Cheery asked.

Vimes shook his head while climbing into the carriage with his burden as carefully as he could.

"There aren't enough of us to guard the whole hospital, Sergeant. I still don't know what's going on or why Lipwig was targeted, but I'm betting we haven't heard the last of this Lord Snike." _And he sure as hell hasn't heard the last of me!_ "They'll be safer at Scoone Avenue for now – at least ifI can get them both to stay there!"

Vimes was sorry for barking that last bit as Cheery closed the carriage door and hopped up to the driver's seat with one of the goblins, though he doubted Adora had heard him. In the cab's dim interior, she was a picture of misery, reaching over to touch a hand to her husband's battered face. Vimes saw her lips move and thought she might be saying Moist's name, but with his ears still ringing he couldn't be sure.

 _Come on, Lipwig! Wake up and move or make a sound or do something!_

Well, he was doing one thing at least.

"He's still breathing," Vimes told her. "There's hope."

[* * * *]

1 Always a possibility with Feegles,


	15. After the Riot

In a basement on Sorterly Street, the not-yet-Patrician of Ankh-Morpork pressed a cloth bag full of ice over the lump on his forehead left by a thrown brick.

" _That_ went well," a deep female voice drawled. Netulia Thistlewhip, reporter for the _Ankh-Morpork Allnews_ downed a shot of Ghlen Livid and started drumming her fingers on a counter in a way that wasn't helping his headache at all. "You realize how hard it's going to be to make this look good in the press, right?"

"So write another story about talking dogs that don't exist," Snike groaned. The comment made her drum her fingers even harder. "Would you stop doing that?"

"I don't work for the _Inquirer_ , remember?" She stopped the drumming but slammed her whiskey glass down hard enough to make him wince. "Melborn, what the hell were you thinking? I gave you an entire list of ideal targets to choose from – why didn't you use one of them? Why take one of the most popular men in the city? How am I supposed to turn you into the Palace's bright boy now?"

"I'm not looking to be shiny, I'm looking to be in charge," he snapped. "And I _will_ be in charge! Today is nothing more than a minor setback. The government is still without a leader, I still have the most money and troops, and if I can bring down that loose catapult of a Commander . . . ." He pressed both hands to his head. "Anyway, when I'm in charge, you can work for any paper you damn well want! Is that enough to satisfy you?"

Netulia poured herself another Ghlen Livid and sipped it as a slow smile crossed her face.

"Actually, I was thinking of something even sooner . . . ."

[* * * *]

" _Melborn_ Snike?" Sybil Vimes frowned. "Yes, Sam, I do know him – or maybe I should say I did a long, long time ago. Not very well back then, either. We Ramkins would have nothing to do with a family like the Snikes – they may have been in our social caste and attended the same functions, but they were awful people."

"Still are, apparently." Sam Vimes paced as he waited for Constable Dorfl to return with Dr. Lawn. A chagrined Willikens had been able to pick the locks and remove the shackles from their injured guest and Vimes had carried Moist up to the spare bedchamber, where Adora was on watch and keeping her crossbow nearby. Vimes didn't think it would be hard to get her to stay there either. Just in case, Of the Twilight the Darkness was perched on top of the wardrobe in the room, keeping an eye on Moist and Adora both. So Vimes had taken the opportunity to bring Sybil up to speed on what had happened and wasn't shocked that once again she was an encyclopedic font of knowledge on Ankh-Morpork aristocracy. But one of Sybil's grandsires had been known to keep a coal brazier in the family carriage in order to heat coins red before tossing them to the peasants who ran up alongside to beg for them. If the Snike family was so vile that even one of _those_ Ramkins didn't want to socialize with them, no adjective might be sufficient to describe them.

"But the Snike family was exiled nearly forty years ago," Sybil continued. "Lord Snapcase ordered them out as soon as he rose to power and it was my understanding they've been living somewhere around Zlobenia ever since."

"Huh," Vimes grunted. "Who knew Mad Lord Snapcase ever did something I'd approve of?" Although sadly, he remembered his sixteen year-old self had been just as hopeful as everyone else that Snapcase would be an improvement over Homicidal Lord Winder. "What did the Snikes do that was so bad?"

"Well, they were in very good with Lord Winder," Sybil said, "and they made their fortune as tax farmers."

"Ah." Yes, that was one of Lord Winder's endearing little traits – selling the privilege to be a tax collector to the highest bidder as an expedient way of getting money for his regime. The 'farmers' then got to recoup their investment by whatever means they saw fitting. If that meant collecting tax monies for themselves by committing acts of cruelty on the peasantry that even Grand-papa Ramkin would've blanched at, so be it. The original Ramkins may have established their own stake through piracy, but as Sybil often reminded him, they'd had _standards_.

Vimes didn't have any more chance to ask questions before a thudding and clattering in the front hall announced Dorfl's arrival with an irate Dr. Lawn.

"I'm only here because it's you asking, Vimes," 'Mossy' snapped. "D'you realize there are reports of a riot downtown? And if it's got anything to do with proctology and fruit I've already had about as much-" The physician broke off as he saw the look on Vimes face. "Right. Where's the patient?"

Vimes led the doctor up to the second floor where Willikens had assigned himself sentry duty outside the guestroom door. At his suggestion, Vimes knocked before entering in case Adora still had an edgy trigger finger.

"Dorfl didn't explain . . . ?" he asked Dr. Lawn, then realized better. No, Dorfl was a golem, and sometimes needed direct orders from an authority figure before he would volunteer information. But the doctor rushed to his patient's bedside and got to work immediately, so Vimes decided to leave the man to it and get back to his own job. He'd rather get some sleep, but it wasn't every day he helped causea riot in Sator Square, and he knew he had to get back to help clean it up.

Sybil needed no further explanations as Vimes and Constable Dorfl headed back toward the center of trouble. He left strict instructions for her and Young Sam to remain in the house, but was pleased to see the other streets relatively calm as he left his own posh neighborhood. That wouldn't be the case if Sator Square was still seething with armed masses, so he hailed a cab to take him and Dorfl to Pseudopolis Yard instead. Cheery was holding the front desk as they made it in and confirmed that something like order had been restored already. Ankh-Morpork's newest conquerors were on the run – for now.

The sound of police wagons pulling up outside heralded the return of Captain Carrot, several constables and Specials and half a dozen arrestees for booking. Another wagon had loaded up with the wounded for Dr. Lawn's colleagues to tend to, some of whom would be brought for booking later. Miraculously, there had been no deaths, although Adora's crossbow bolts ensured that at least three of the new Winder Guard wouldn't be in any shape to give the Watch trouble for a long time, even with an Igor's help.

"They mostly got away clean, Sir," Carrot apologized, "although I'm sure more of them are casualties we don't know about yet. We caught one of Mr. Lipwig's kidnappers, though I'm afraid he's not going to be very cooperative." The tall officer's face colored a bit. "It's the, ah, grag, Sir."

The civil war which had taken place between the graggish dark dwarf faction led by Ardent and their more progressive kinfolk had been especially painful for Carrot, a dwarf himself by adoption and upbringing. He shared the progressives' embarrassment over the dark dwarf actions that had made the entire race subject to scorn in many people's eyes. While Cheery Littlebottom shrugged off the anti-dwarfish comments now heard in some quarters, Carrot still felt it a touch upon every dwarf's dignity. The fact that a grag, any grag, was stirring up more trouble after several months of peace, and engaging in violent and treacherous acts on behalf of a pretender to the Patricianship must have stung.

"We'll see if he doesn't cooperate a bit more with Blackboard Monitor Vimes, shall we?" Vimes murmured as the tattoo on his wrist began to glow again. "Let's bring him in."

Dorfl was already assisting the lance constables with the grag prisoner, who despite the handcuffs and a face and hands covered in goblin bites, still put up a fight.

" _ **B'zugda-Hiara!**_ "1 the grag spat at Carrot as he was dragged past the Captain toward the cells. But a lot of the fight went out of him as he got a good, close look at Commander Vimes and the symbol of the Summoning Dark on his wrist.

"Right," said Vimes. "Search him, book him and let him know I'll be coming in to interview him _personally_ in a little while." In the meantime, he'd give this grag enough of an interval to marinate in his own terror, while Vimes located the blackboard eraser he kept for such occasions. Among the more superstitious delvers who believed the title his old elementary school teacher had given him granted Vimes the power to erase words – and living beings – out of existence, the blackboard eraser worked even better than the ginger beer trick.

Carrot was still looking troubled as the grag disappeared into the cell block.

"Best of luck getting anything out of that one, Sir. I'm afraid I still don't understand any of this. If that Lord Snike fellow is hoping to make himself a Patrician, why not just present himself to the Guild masters as a candidate and make it worth their while to support him? Why all that business in the Square? And why do what he did to poor Mr. Lipwig?"

"We don't have any answers yet," Vimes shook his head, but an idea was starting to form in it anyway as he told Carrot what few facts he'd been able to glean from Sybil's memories. Heir of an antiquated, powerful, aristocratic family who'd had things their way under Lord Winder but driven out decades ago . . . wanting to come back into power, but trying to do it the old way . . . a way that might have worked if Ankh-Morpork was still the same city it had been thirty, forty years ago. But nothing stayed the same, had it? That would have been wishful thinking on an exile's part. Earlier generations of Ankh-Morporkians might have been cowed by the sight of Lord Snike's trollish minion and the men-at-arms, or knuckled under to bad, bullying Patricians, until sheerest desperation and poverty forced them to rebel. Then they'd have brought in a new man to be just as bad or worse and start the whole process over again. But _that_ Ankh-Morpork was not _this_ Ankh-Morpork. _This_ Ankh-Morpork was a changed city, a city where multiple races lived, worked, and thrived together, a city where despite the continued institution of the Patricianship and Lord Vetinari's alleged tyranny, the rule of law reigned supreme, even over Vetinari himself. It was a city where, more and more these days, people enjoyed a remarkable degree of freedom, plenty, and even a free press which, Vimes was forced to admit, might be a good thing. At least sometimes.

Lord Vetinari had been the only Patrician Captain Carrot had ever known since moving here from Copperhead. In fact, he was the only Patrician many Ankh-Morporkians had ever known, and as long as Vetinari had the liberty to remind people that he was a tyrant, he didn't feel particularly obliged to act like one. It worked. The city all worked. But an exiled scion living in far away Zlobenia for decades wouldn't have known that. If Lord Melborn Snike was backwards-looking enough to dress his private army in Lord Winder's colors, he might indeed be backwards-looking enough to think he could use old methods to restore Ankh-Morpork to the good old days which had been good indeed for the Snikes, but not for most everyone else . . . .

It was enough to make Sam Vimes seriously think about giving his head permission to hurt now. But first he would have to find a way to round up Snike and that private army of his with a half-strength Watch roster and only limited help from the Palace. Most importantly of all, he would have to prove just how wrong Snike was about this city, and hope that the city continued to do the same . . . .

[* * * *]

1 Lawn Ornament – considered a terrible insult in dwarfish.


	16. Attempting Repairs

Moist tried to open his eyes – that was his first mistake. Or at least his first mistake at that exact moment. Then he tried to regain full consciousness. That was his second mistake, and it was a whopper. A massive, crushing, gigantic anvil of soreness was holding him down, pinning him to, he guessed, whatever it was he was pinned to. His entire upper body ached. Every part of it felt bruised, as if the bruises had their own bruises. His arms throbbed like they'd been on fire recently and gotten extinguished a bit late. Even his eyebrows hurt.

" **mst, cn y hr me?"**

He didn't remember feeling this bad even after being hanged. He'd been thirsty then, and his neck had hurt like hell, but the rest of his body had still been on speaking terms with him. He'd actually been glad to wake up, even if it did come as a shock at the time.

" **mst? moist?"**

Someone, somewhere far off, was calling his name. It sounded like Spike. He groaned and felt someone applying a cold, wet cloth to his forehead.

" **i thnk hs cmng rnd."**

And that voice sounded like Dr. Lawn. Moist must be injured, if Dr. Lawn was here. He certainly hoped he was injured, because if he felt like this while he was well, he was going to have a severe word with his doctor about it . . . .

Moist tried to open his eyes again, and this time one of them felt like cooperating, or at least to becoming an accessory after the fact. It didn't improve things much. He could see only light at first, which hurt, and then vague, fuzzy shapes hovering over him. He tried to remember where he'd been and what he'd been doing up until this moment, and it started to come back to him. First the beatings while he was kept from defending himself by the troll that had grabbed him. Then a man named Witworth giving an order and the troll squeezing him so hard he couldn't breathe, and then the sudden terrible pain and darkness . . . .

" **moist, can you hear me?"**

The only part of him that didn't hurt must have floated away somewhere. He wondered where it had gone to. The blurry shapes above him began turning into faces, and one of them was Adora's. She looked worried for some reason. He remembered the time she'd come for him in the hospital after he'd been run over by a train when he'd rescued the two children who'd wandered onto the tracks. She'd checked over every inch of him then as if to make sure none of his parts were missing. Perhaps the floaty bits had gotten away this time?

"Moist?"

He tried to speak, and at first no sound came out at all, but he swallowed and then he heard words come out in his own voice, so it must be him making them.

"Where . . . 'm'I?"

"Commander Vimes' house," the Dr. Lawn voice told him.

That made no sense either, because why would Vimes have beaten him up? Or had him beaten up? They were friends now, weren't they?

"He saved you, Moist," Adora said, as she dabbed at his forehead again with the cloth. That made a little more sense. But why was he here, in Vimes' house when his own was just down the street?

"Try not to move too much, Mr. Lipwig," the Dr. Lawn voice told him, and then a bit more of the blurriness cleared and the voice had a Dr. Lawn attached to it. "You've been very badly hurt and I'm still trying to determine what all the damage is."

"Are my legs still attached?" He asked them. "I can't really tell . . . ."

[* * * *]

Perdita X. Dream was having a bad hair day. In fact, she was having a bad _everything_ day and whining incessantly, so Agnes Nitt told her other personality to just go stuff it. She found herself doing that more and more often these days. Oh, she'd heard all the jokes about her figure – that inside every fat woman there was a thin woman trying to get out and a whole lot of chocolate. But right now Agnes Nitt was an outer child who wanted to slap her inner child silly. All the extra 'padding' she was keeping balanced on her broomstick wasn't enough to keep her warm at this height.

"All ready for you, dearie!" Nanny Ogg shouted above the wind as the two witches prepared for the handoff. Agnes, the Maiden of the Lancre Coven, slapped palms with Nanny, the Mother, and let the beginning part of the spell they were weaving flow out of her and into the older, more experienced witch. As she did so, she caught sight of Nanny's metal flask poking out of the generous bosom that seemed to be characteristic of Ogg women, and which was Nanny's preferred method for keeping warm. Agnes hoped Nanny hadn't nipped any of it already. The second stage of the spell was trickier, and Nanny needed to hand off to Granny Weatherwax for the final and hardest part of all.

Agnes couldn't worry about that, though. Now that she'd done her part, she had to concentrate on bringing her broom down safely, which was getting harder and harder to do now that areas of magic had become disrupted. As the wind whistled past her non-aerodynamic physique, the broom suddenly jerked almost out of her hands and without further warning she found herself plummeting downward. A null pocket! Agnes pulled up on the broom handle as hard as she could, but it bucked like the old bronco that Jason Ogg kept out behind his blacksmith shed. She slowed, but if she didn't get her descent under control and fast, she would make one very large black and pink splatter in the forest below. She needed help, and Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax were too far away to give it. That meant there was only one person she could turn to.

Perdita!

 _Flounce._

Only shewould have a split personality that flounced its hair at a time like this!

Perdita, you have to help me or we're both going to die!

 _You yelled at me!_

Listen, I'm sorry about that but we have to work together – right now! Please!

 _Shrug._

Okay, okay, Agnes had tried being nice about it, but all those trees and ground rushing up didn't appear user friendly. Agnes took a deep breath and resorted to a tactic she'd hoped she wouldn't have to use.

Perdita X. Dream! she shouted. You help me do something about this or I'll tell King Verence you have a huge crush on him!

The broom jerked upwards as her alternate self snapped to attention.

 _You wouldn't dare!_

Oh yes, I would! You know what'll happen then, don't you? He and Queen Magrat won't want us around anymore and we'll have to run away to the Big Wahoonie1 again!

That was a risky tactic, Agnes knew – Perdita _liked_ Big Wahoonies. But Agnes had a follow-up:

And then I'll go to the Assassins' Guild and I'll tell all the cute ones that you prefer men who wear bells on their hats and on their shoes, and that your favorite color is plaid!

 _Noooo!_ Perdita shrieked. _You bitch!_

I'll do it, if you don't help me bring this thing in for a soft landing! I swear!

To which god, Agnes hadn't decided yet, but Perdita didn't call her bluff. She and herself worked in tandem and both their magical efforts put together leveled the broom off – not a moment too soon. Agnes winced as the tops of the pine trees and their needles lacerated her stockings and knocked off one of her shoes. She'd have to go back and look for it – black Turnbuckle 2500s in triple wide were hard to come by in the Ramtops. She and Perdita would still be alive to find it though, she thought as she brought the broom in for a gliding stop.

Half an hour later, Agnes saw Nanny Ogg's broom crashing through the treetops as Nanny had an even rougher time of it. The tip of Nanny's broom handle embedded itself in the mulch of the forest floor as it came to a jerky halt, sending Nanny Ogg tumbling head over heels into a shrub that would never be the same again.

"Oooohff!" Nanny Ogg wheezed as Agnes helped her to her feet. "I haven't had a bouncing that rough since an ol' magic storm stranded that whole crew of Klatchian navy men in my-"

"Nanny!" Agnes interrupted. "Did you do it?"

"Well of course I-"

"I mean, did Granny get the link from you? Is she going to be able to complete the circuit?"

"Yep. Now don't you worry about Esme, my girl! No little magic gaps and warps are going to stop her!" Nanny patted herself down and pulled on a large open pouch at her waist, alarmed to find it empty. "Greebo! I've lost my precious kitty!"

Greebo, a one-eyed, rag-eared, meaner-than-a-grizzly-bear, spaying advertisement of a tomcat was an animal that only Nanny Ogg could consider 'precious'. It's not so much that he was her familiar – he made himself familiar with any non-human wild female mammal in heat, feline or otherwise – but to Nanny, this terror of the Discworld would always be the cute little kitter-witters who had played with balls of sweater yarn on the rug before her fire when he was only a few weeks old. And a coven being a coven, Agnes (and Perdita) was/were obliged to help Nanny find her Greebo.

"Greebo," Nanny wailed into the worsening weather, "where are you, my little fuzz mitten?"

"Grrreeeeebbboooo!" Agnes and Perdita cried in harmony as only they could.

They were still looking for the cat as Granny Weatherwax, in a hail of bird feathers and hastily laid eggs, pulled her broom up in front of them and came to a perfect and stable landing, as if daring anything to give _her_ a problem. If Agnes had needed to fly high and Nanny even higher, Granny must have been almost out of the stratoflat. A thin icicle hung off of her pointed nose, and a coating of frost edged the brim of her tall, black, pointier hat. The Crone of the Lancre Coven watched her two colleagues, shook more icicles off of her black shawl, and scowled.

"Gytha Ogg!" Granny snapped. "Don't tell me you've mislaid that overgrown hairball again! And is that any way to pass the time while I'm freezing my widdershins off up there?" She turned her glare on Agnes. "I don't suppose you thought to start a fire and get some tea ready, knowin' I'd be needing some after doing a job for the both of you!"

 _I don't suppose she did either._

"I wasn't asking _you_!" The old witch grumbled at Perdita.

"But Esme," Nanny Ogg protested, "my poor little Greebo could be lost and frightened out there somewhere!"

"If the 'out there' has any sense, it'll be what's frightened! The cat'll turn up when it's good and ready to turn up – it always does!" She interrupted herself with a volley of sneezes and an appraisal of Nanny Ogg's ruined broom. Treating the wooden sticks with a mix of salt, wood oil and wow wow sauce in advance had kept them from freezing up in the heights, but with the magical disruptions getting worse, Nanny's bristles would need a complete overhaul. Granny knew better than to suggest it using that term of course, and she'd long since learned to avoid any mention of the shape of the handles with Nanny, wizards' staves being not the only thing that had a knob on the end. "Now let's get us someplace warm and dry before we catch our death of colds!"

As Nanny, still sniffling and complaining a bit, climbed onto Agnes' already overburdened broom while carrying the remnants of her own, the youngest member of the Lancre Coven dared to ask the senior witch a question.

"Did it work?"

"The spell?" Granny chewed her lower lip and nodded. "For now. But we're putting a thin bandage on something that's needin' stitches. No telling how long it'll hold."

But that's what witches did, Agnes reminded herselves. Witches guard the edges when no one else will. She didn't want to find out what happens when the bleeding starts and the bandages run out . . . .

. . . . and from the Chalk to the river valleys of the Djel to Borogravia and beyond, here and there, scattered groups of witches worked spells in their lands, traced and untraced patterns and hoped the efforts would suffice . . . .

. . . . for now . . . .

[-]

1 A nickname for Ankh-Morpork or, alternately, a vegetable from Howandaland that can grow to the size of a horse, while being smellier and far less pleasant than the horse.


	17. The Matter of Balance

. . . . and in Death's black and timeless HOUSE, a small group of individuals watched through the windows as one grey robe full of nothing detached itself from the masses of other grey robes full of nothing, walked toward the entryway door and, through no apparent means, knocked.

"Do they usually do that?" Vetinari asked.

"Never," Susan whispered. "At least, I've never seen them do it."

"Never is a long time," Lu-Tze pointed out.

Albert Malich blew his nose, put away his handkerchief and stood up.

"I'd better go answer that then."

Ronnie Soak appeared ready to go answer the door with him, a tight grin on his face.

"No! Albert, have you gone mad?" Susan yelled. "We can't let one of them in here!"

"If your grandfather tells me otherwise, certainly," Albert explained. "But . . . ."

I WILL NOT TELL YOU OTHERWISE, Death said, appearing from behind all of them. HOWEVER YOU MAY FIND IT IS UNNECESSARY TO SPEAK TO THEM IN HERE.

"What?" Susan stared at Death and Albert both. "Are you both affected? Go out there or let them in here? There are hundreds of those things!"

Death nodded.

NOT ALL AUDITORS ARE ALIKE, JUST AS NOT ALL PEOPLE ARE ALIKE. YOU KNOW THIS ALREADY.

"So you're expecting us to trust those . . . those . . . ."

AUDITORS OF REALITY. PERHAPS. YOU TRUSTED UNITY, DID YOU NOT?

"Who is Unity?" Vetinari asked.

Susan waved the question away.

"Long story – tell you later." She looked again at the rows of Auditors. "Grandfather, did you _invite_ them here?"

YES.

The knocking sound came again. Albert once more moved to answer the door, and Vetinari as well as Ronnie Soak moved with him.

"I don't think it would be the done thing to keep the esteemed guests waiting in this case," Vetinari commented. "But if it is not necessary to allow them in here, by all means let us meet them out there." Without waiting to see if any of the others were coming or not, he followed Albert, who seemed to have as unerring a sense of navigation about the HOUSE as Death himself did. Behind him, Vetinari heard Susan Sto Helit curse under her breath and move to catch up with them.

The Auditor who had knocked at Death's Door, when the group got there, stood back at a distance as soon as the door opened, as if it was no more eager to cross the threshold than Susan was to allow it in. Vetinari decided to see if reading empty robes was something he did as well as reading faces. Somehow being mostly dead and not a Patrician at the moment made the decision easier. He went out the door first and inclined his head toward the visitor. The little grey robe of nothing turned its open hood up toward him.

 _Havelock Vetinari, We greet you._

The sound of the Auditor's words did not come in through Vetinari's ears but was more like a vibration he felt throughout his whole body.

"You have the advantage of me . . . ."

 _We do not have names._

 _It is sufficient that you know We are not They and They are not We._

"And by 'They,' I take it you are referring to those of your kind who wish to bring an end to our world?" Assuming it _was_ his world any longer.

 _That is correct._

 _We do not wish for Them to succeed._

"And why would that be, then?" Ronnie Soak asked. He had appeared by Vetinari's side without Vetinari having any chance to react.

 _Greetings, One Who Burns With The Cold Of Creation._

 _We do not desire the end of Life, or the end of Death, because We do not fear Them. We study the Aspects of Reality. We do not destroy Them._

"That doesn't entirely answer the question," Vetinari pointed out.

 _It is as much an answer as We are capable of giving. We cannot say why We do not fear that which We do not understand. We are all children of Azrael, They and We. Yet We are different._

"So if you don't want them to destroy the world," Susan asked after stepping out herself, "why don't you stop them?"

 _We do all that We can, as We have done before, as We do now. But We are fewer in number than They, and limited in what actions We may take. Some among You have more freedom to act than We. The Balance is shifting. That is why We must act now, and why You must act. Or They will end the Balance._

"So if I am understanding you correctly," Vetinari said, "this is a matter of cooperative effort you are seeking – to restore this Balance?"

 _Correct._

"And how do we do that?"

 _You must repair the damage to the patterns that maintain the Balance. We did not harm it and We cannot restore it. Only those who are mortal may act._

"And while we're doing all that," Susan sighed, "however we're going to do that, since we don't know what these patterns are or where to find them, what are you going to be doing? Watching?"

The little grey robe of nothing shook its hood.

 _They will not just allow You to interfere with the Plan. They will try to stop You. We must try to stop Them._

The small figure of the Auditor glided up to Ronnie Soak.

 _One Who Burns With The Cold Of Creation, You have stood against others such as They before, in the Conflict. Will you stand with such as We?_

NOT ALONE.

The sound of horse hooves came across the silent plain and three horsemen appeared in the distance. Death, on his white stallion, rode out to join them.

"Just can't get away from the Farewell Reunion Tours, can we?" Ronnie grinned. "Nice to know someone is willing to admit I'm needed. _If_ they admit it." He shrugged and winked to Vetinari and the others. "So is the party breaking up or is it just getting started?"

"Difficult to tell. And speaking of that . . . ." Susan frowned and surveyed the masses of identical grey robes. "If you're the Auditors who are on our side, how are we supposed to tell you apart from the Auditors you call They?"

All of the little grey robes full of nothing turned around and appeared to be examining one another as though the question confused them.

 _We know who We are. We are not They._

 _Is that not obvious?_

"Not to someone who isn't part of your charming collective, or whatever you want to call it, it isn't. Can't you make yourselves look, I don't know, dark red or something?"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, every grey robe of the figures on the dark, starry plain turned to a dull shade of crimson.

 _Will that be sufficient for the purpose?_

"I suppose it will do for now," she muttered.

"Thank you for not suggesting pink," Vetinari whispered to her, and on this one topic they had an agreement.

"Pink would just be _so_ wrong," she replied.

[-]

SQUEAK.

NO.

SQUEAK.

WE HAVE BEEN OVER THIS BEFORE. I AM A HORSEMAN. YOU ARE NOT.

SQUEAK.

YES, WELL QUOTH WILL HAVE TO DO. AND I NEED SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER THINGS WHILE I AM GONE. THAT IS YOUR ROLE FOR NOW.

SQUEAK!

[-]

" _Five_ Horsemen of the Apocalypse?"

"There isn't much point to keeping it a secret or anything now. He just prefers that people guess. He's still pretty sore about being written out of the history books after he broke up with the others." Susan studied the map of the Discworld that Albert had left rolled up and set aside in the library. "They became famous, he became a milkman."

"Kaos. Soak." Vetinari mused. "It makes a certain sense I suppose. One Who Burns With The Cold Of Creation is a bit long to print on the side of a dairy delivery van, and sounds too much like a liniment advertisement. Or a very stuffy goblin name."

Death, Kaos, Pestilence, War and Famine had already removed themselves to strategize with the crimson Auditors. Lu-Tze was attempting to work with Albert on the problem of Albert's few remaining seconds of life in his own Lifetimer, so as to stretch them to the breaking point. That left Vetinari and Susan to figure out a next move of their own. While Susan had the map, Vetinari held the hourglass with his name on it.

"At least you may succeed where I failed," he said. "I can't go back for now, but if you take Dame Weatherwax' message to the Archchancellor, it may not be too late."

Susan nodded, still not much in the mood to talk to him. It had already been decided that a visit to Unseen University would be her first move.

"And I suppose I have other helpful memories I'm not dredging up yet." The unmoving blue and black sands glistened in their almost-but-not-quite-identical proportions behind the glass.

"Maybe you could figure out where these patterns are that we're supposed to be looking for," Susan muttered as she rubbed her eyes. "Or how exactly they affect this Balance, whatever the Auditors meant by that."

"I think I may already have an idea about that."

As Susan watched, Vetinari went over to a table containing the remnant dishes from some simple refreshments Albert had brought them earlier and began rearranging them on the table's surface.

"Your grandfather doesn't get upset about smashed crockery, does he?"

"I doubt he'd even notice it much. Why?"

Vetinari carefully removed the remaining fruit from a large serving bowl, turned it upside down on the table and with the care and dexterity of a trained assassin placed four equal sized, equally upside down glasses on top of the inverted bowl. Then he selected the largest plate he could find among what remained, held it up to his eyes, judged its weight, centered and lowered it onto the four glasses so that it came to a rest on top of them, its edges hanging far over. As he removed his hands, Susan held her breath. The plate remained in place, the glasses did not move.

"Sometimes it pays to be literal minded," Vetinari said. Then he took a single grape from the discarded fruit and with as much care as he had already shown, held it in his fingertips and slowly lowered it onto one edge of the plate. As soon as he released it from his fingers, the plate made the slightest tremor and all at once tipped, fell, taking three of the four glasses down with it, and smashed into dozens of shards on the floor.

"It's a question of balance, you see."

[* * * *]


	18. Damage

Vimes was in his office still letting the Watch's grag prisoner stew when he heard the commotion coming up from the cell areas downstairs. He had snatched up his sword and shield and was on the stairs when Carrot intercepted him. The tall officer was red-faced, but not from exertion.

"Problem with the prisoner, Captain?"

"Er, yes, Mister Vimes. I've already got Cheery and Dorfl dealing with it, Sir." Carrot appeared genuinely distressed. "The thing is, it's sort of a dwarfish matter."

 _Shouldn't you be handling it then?_ Vimes thought, but then resisted. That was the old school thinking rearing its ugly head again. He'd worked too damn hard during the Koom Valley riots to impress upon his staff that the City Watch did not have troll officers and dwarf officers and human officers, etc. – it just had officer officers. If duty called, you left your ethnicity at the door. But a grag criminal wasn't going to respect that attitude.

"I think I'll let Cheery explain, Sir."

No doubt about it – the man was blushing. What the hell?

Vimes wasted no further time getting to the holding area and there it was Cheery who met him at the door. She was perturbed too, but more angry than embarrassed. From behind her in a cell, the grag's voice still swore a blue streak.

"What's going on here, Sergeant?"

"It's the grag, Sir. Grag Flambrung is his name. Constable Magnusson recognized him from Bonk and was assisting the Captain in doing a strip search when they came across the, uh, problem, and called me and Dorfl in, Sir.

Vimes had a sinking feeling he knew what was coming next.

"The thing is," Cheery explained, "Grag Flambrung doesn't know he's a female, Sir."

 _Right_ , Vimes thought. Humanity had its Omnians, its monks and nuns of different denominations, and trolls had their share of celibate orders. Nac Mac Feegles only had one 'queen' breeding female, their kelda, to be mother or sister to a nearly all male tribe. But when it came to repressed sexuality, no other race managed to be quite as messed up as the dwarves. Their refusal to publicly acknowledge the gender of half their species for hundreds or thousands of years contributed in no small part to the schisms the dwarf community was suffering today. While the other sentient races had started driving their priests and priestesses to distraction with the demand for same sex marriages, Vimes had to wonder, how many generations of dwarves might have been engaging in them by accident? The former Low King, now the Low Queen, was bringing an end to the confusion and discrimination against dwarf womanhood, but none of that made any difference in the present case as far as Vimes was concerned.

"Carrot and Magnusson don't have to worry about being accused of conducting an inappropriate search. You don't either, if that's what the grag is howling about," Vimes growled. "But I don't care if this Grag Flambrung is a he, she or an it, a screwed up childhood is no excuse for assault, kidnapping, attempted murder and conspiracy against the government and public safety of the city. The same goes for anyone who commits a crime here. Queen Blodwen might say otherwise, but this is Ankh-Morpork. Got it?"

Cheery nodded.

"Good. Because there isn't going to be any internecine fighting, grudges or soft-peddling on this one. Make sure every officer here knows that. I'll be making it an order for the Captains." Gods, he was tired. "I'll ask you to stay nearby, Sergeant, in case I need any help with translation."

Not that the prisoner's sentiments needed any translation. Constable Dorfl held the dressed-down delver back by the scruff of the grag's undershirt to keep him/her from lunging at Vimes as the Commander entered the cell. Instead of being fretted by the Blackboard Monitor's presence, as Vimes had hoped, Grag Flambrung was more riled up than before by the encounters with the other officers. No point in trying the friendly approach ortheintimidation approach with this one anymore. Might as well get straight to the point and make the suspect more angry and hopefully more careless.

"Well, well, aren't you the little ray of sunshine?" Vimes asked, hoping that that was as bad an insult to a deep delver as he thought. "You're quite the accomplished warrior, Flambrung. Brave too. I understand you are extremely good at punching people as long as they're being held prone for you. And your latest victim was unconscious and shackled when you tried to swing your battle axe at him. Lucky break for you – you were _almost_ capable of hitting the target!"

If Flambrung had been angry before, the dwarf was frothing now.

"D'harak Tra'ka!" the grag spat at Vimes and clawed at the air, kept firm in Dorfl's grasp and unable to reach Vimes. "Face me without your big clay doll and dare say that to me!"

"Tsk tsk," Vimes clucked, giving Flambrung the sweetest smile he was capable of. "Constable Dorfl isn't here for my protection, you know. My, my goodness, no! This fine officer is here for yours!" He leaned back against the bars of the door and began buffing and inspecting his fingernails, keeping the wrist mark turned toward his suspect for emphasis. "Seems your pals are better at getting away than you are. You can't even do that right! So is there any reason I should consider you a threat?"

 _C'mon, brag to me, you little creep! Tell me what you and your crew are capable of!_

"When our side is victorious, you and yours will be burned alive in the flames of our wrath!"

"Burned alive in the flames of wrath?" Vimes chuckled. "Where the hell did you get that line from? The Ankh-Morpork Inquirer? Or are the novelty shops selling bad penny novels again? You're going to have to do better than that! Some deep delvers _did_ try to burn me and mine a while back. I let my butler take them out." That was more than a slight exaggeration, and Vimes was amazed he could be so calm and jest about an incident he still had nightmares about. But getting Grag Flambrung off balance was key to finding out anything useful the dwarf might know.

The grag knew that too, and abruptly clammed up and stopped struggling in Dorfl's hold. Or was the grag beginning to think about the Summoning Dark mark as Vimes let it show?

"So what're you doing working for a man like Snike?" Vimes asked. "Isn't that slumming for you? And a grag teaming up with a troll? Since when does someone like you do that?"

Vimes hadn't really expected an answer. But the grag turned on him with wild eyes full of an insane hate.

"Why shouldn't I?" Grag Flambrung shouted. "Your kind of d'Harak has made me seamless!"

 _You seem seamy enough as far as I'm concerned, chum!_ But that wasn't the meaning the word had for the dwarf, was it? Especially for a grag – grags viewed mining and smithing as almost the only true and acceptable occupations for their race – seam was a geological term, possibly one that had greater symbolic value to Flambrung.

Seamless . . . .

Mineless?

Jobless?

Homeless maybe?

Or worse?

When a group of grags and deep dwarves had conspired to bring war and all its horrors to their fellow dwarves, to trolls and to humans seven years ago, before the Koom Valley Accord, Low King Rhys Rhysson had shown mercy to these misled rebels. Avoiding an out-and-out civil war among the dwarves had been the goal then, and it had been a futile hope. Clemency was mistaken for weakness, and the horrors that followed – the burned clacks towers, the murdered railway workers, murdered dwarves – had to be punished. Rhysson, now daring to declare herself Low Queen, had been less forgiving after last year's coup attempt, of necessity. Ardent's most ardent followers would get no pardon for their crimes this time, no more refuge in Uberwald.

"You have no seam, no stake left with your own kind, is that it?" Grag Flambrung's glare was answer enough. "So it's okay for you to be Snike's token dwarf?"

The 'token' comment scored a hit and a flinch, even though Flambrung said nothing. Did he/she even realize that's what he/she was? Because Vimes hadn't thought about it until he used the word, but that's exactly what Flambrung was – the only dwarf in Snike's crew – or at least the only one seen at the rally. Only one troll backing up the new Winder Guards, too, and no undeads, no gnomes, no other non-human species backing Snike up or being part of his entourage at the rally. That made sense for a private army that had Quirke as its Captain – Quirke was a well known racist. Ankh-Morpork under Lord Winder hadn't been a multi-racial haven either. Did this dwarf even know that, or care anymore?

Maybe something inside that wretched lump of hate and self-hate could be made to care if given a few more hours to think about it. Vimes wouldn't get any easy answers here. Not yet.

"My guess is you've got nothing worth saying," Vimes told the grag. "Too bad." He took the blackboard eraser he'd found out of his belt pouch and flipped it around in his hands a couple of times for emphasis. Flambrung flinched again. "But if you can think of anything worth sharing, it might save you from the hanging charges you're looking at right now. Or worse. I'd give that some real consideration if I were in your shoes."

With a final flip of the eraser, Vimes left the cell shook his head. What a waste.

"Any more orders, Sir?" Cheery asked.

"No," Vimes pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to remember how long it had been since he'd last slept. "Not today. I'm going to have to pack it in after all. I've got a few things to think about whether our grag friend intended to be helpful or not, but I'm too punchy to do any good here. I'll let the Captain know I'm leaving. Keep me posted, Sergeant and if anything more happens, you know where to find me." _And please, please don't let anything more happen today!_

[-]

Vimes' eyes felt like fried eggs that had been given a shot of hot sauce as he trudged his way up the walk of Scoone Avenue Number One. He wanted some good news here at least. Maybe 'Mossy' Lawn had been able to bring Lipwig around? But as Willikens opened the front door to allow his master to enter, someone else took the opportunity to slip out. Of the Twilight the Darkness, the goblin who had been hovering around more than any other, did not even glance up at Vimes as he slunk away in a dejected fashion without making a sound. Not a good sign. Neither was the stiff expression on Willikens' face.

"Any trouble while I was out?" Vimes asked.

"None to report, Sir." The butler's voice was more neutral than normal.

"And Lady Sybil?"

"Upstairs, Sir."

"Dr. Lawn?"

"Also upstairs, Sir."

Uh oh. That definitely was not good. Mossy didn't doctor people as if he was paid by the hour, and Vimes had been gone awhile.

 _Might as well find out how bad the situation was._

Vimes handed his weapons and armor off to Willikens as usual and headed upstairs. As soon as he reached the second floor, he saw Sybil in the hall just outside the guest room. Sybil never eavesdropped – she considered eavesdropping to be the height of bad manners. She simply preferred to keep herself informed about things, and it was apparent from the pinched and worried look on her face that whatever she was keeping herself informed about now wasn't happy. She raised a finger to her lips as she saw her husband coming toward her. A chill came over Vimes as he moved closer and heard what she was hearing – another woman's sobs. Adora hadn't shed a single tear that Vimes had noticed in the time since she'd interrupted dinner at their house – not even on the awful carriage ride back from Sator Square. But she was crying now. There was something unnatural and unreal about hearing that sound coming from her.

Before Vimes could whisper a question, the door to the guest room opened and Dr. Lawn came out, holding his bag. Through the open door Vimes could see Adora, half sitting, half slumped on the floor next to the bed, holding Moist's hand. Without a word Sybil walked around both men, entered the guest room, kneeled down on the floor herself and took the younger woman in her arms as she would a small child.

Dr. Lawn, drawn and tired, gestured for Vimes to follow him a distance down the hallway before he spoke.

"I did everything I could for him, Vimes, but . . . ."

"Is he . . . ?"

"Dead? No, though he may wish he was when the news has had a chance to sink in, poor devil." The doctor sighed. "That troll who attacked him broke his lower back and paralyzed both of his legs. I'm afraid there's nothing I can do to heal that. The man is never going to be able to walk or even stand up on his own again." Lawn shook his head. "I'm sorry I don't have a better prognosis to give you, or his wife. I'll be back in the morning to check on him. He's still pretty much out of it. I've also left Mrs. Lipwig with a pill to help her sleep if she can manage it. You and your wife do what you can for her, will you?"

As he watched Dr. Lawn retreat down the stairs, Vimes' mind grasped at straws. If there was nothing Lawn could accomplish, perhaps Igor could . . . ? Igor had already worked wonders at saving the severed limbs of many a wounded officer. Sometimes he even saved them for other officers. But no, that wouldn't work in this case . . . . Vimes vaguely recalled Igor telling him once before that the one irreplaceable organ he couldn't transplant was the 'thpine,' damn it all.

And Mossy was right. Vimes had chosen Lipwig as the man he'd wanted battling the dark dwarves beside him from the top of a moving train, because Vimes had seen how he could move. Lipwig had _danced_ on that treacherous surface as if it were a ballroom floor. And he loved to climb, too. More than once, Vimes had been called out by the Patrician to keep an eye on the Postmaster's edifaceering exploits. Would a life of paralysis be preferable to death for someone like that?

Vimes' gut burned at the unfairness of it all – another crime Lord Snike and his crew had to answer for. Vimes was no closer to figuring out why Moist had been targeted either. The younger man had nearly as keen a talent for making enemies as Vimes himself did, but a thirty-plus year exile from the city shouldn't have been one of them. Regardless of what Snike had announced at his rally as the reason, the Watch knew damned well Snike's victim hadn't been committing any act of defiance when he was taken. For a change, Lipwig hadn't been doing anything to upset anybody. Just an ordinary guy out buying a nice present for his wife. And neither Moist nor Adora could possibly have had anything to do with Lord Winder's downfall or Lord Snapcase's banishment of the Snike family. Hell, they hadn't been born yet!

Vimes was in his den on the first floor still seething and puzzling over it all when Sybil found him there an hour later. She'd somehow managed to calm Adora and persuade her to get some rest, but her own eyes were red and swollen now too.

"Sam, this is monstrous! We have to do something about it!"

He nodded. Vimes knew from experience she meant the 'we' part. Oh yes, they'd do something about it all right, if they had to search every crack and crevice of Ankh-Morpork to find the lead monster and his troll bully. Knowing the Ramkins, Snike might count himself lucky if Vimes was the one who found him first. Or maybe not so lucky . . . .

 _This is_ my _city, you bastard – and the man you've hurt is one of_ my _friends!_

But Of the Twilight the Darkness' dispirited departure from the mansion did nothing to ease Vimes' mind about what the future might hold. Had the goblin only wanted to give Adora some privacy in her grief, or had the rats begun deserting the sinking ship already?

[-]


	19. The Goblin Potion

Vimes didn't know how many hours of sleep he'd gotten – not enough – when the clatter and commotion down the hallway from the Master bedroom woke him up. What the hell?

Beside him, Sybil was still snoring. Life with swamp dragons enabled her and Young Sam to sleep through anything short of a wizard war if they had to. But life as a copper had given Vimes a whole different set of reflexes. He was out of bed, out the door and armed with one of his spare truncheons in the time it takes some men to draw a breath. The location of the sounds was all too obvious – the guest room door stood ajar and he could hear Willikens' angry voice and something or someone else coming from within.

 _Damn it, no!_

Vimes leapt into the room weapon lifted, ready to strike, and through the Summoning Dark's gift of night vision saw his butler holding a struggling goblin in one hand and a stoppered bottle in the other. The goblin, Of the Twilight the Darkness, was screeching and biting Willikens' hand for all he was worth and scrabbling at the air with his little clawed fingers to reach the bottle.

"I caught him breaking in, Sir," Willikens explained with characteristic restraint as Vimes joined him. "I fear he may have intended to use this on our guests." Willikens handed Vimes the brown glass bottle, which had a label of 'Rat Poison' on it.

"Nice," growled Vimes.

"Is mine! Is mine!" Of the Twilight the Darkness hissed at Vimes and the butler both. "Give back!"

"I don't think so." Vimes clamped a hand around the goblin's shoulders from behind so Willikens could tend to his injured hand and light the lamp nearest the entryway. Vimes shook the goblin and then held Of the Twilight the Darkness on a level with the hardest stare he could give the creature. "How could you do this?" he barked. "I thought you were their friend!"

" _Am_ friend!" the goblin chittered back at Vimes, still reaching toward the bottle. "Is not poison! Is medicine for Mr. Moist von Lipwig, to make better! Give back!"

"What kind of medicine do you call this, a mercy killing?"

Vimes heard a sound coming from the bed in the room and cursed under his breath. Whatever pill Mossy might have left, it wasn't enough to keep Adora asleep through all of this racket. The last thing she needed on top of everything else was to wake up to a betrayal like this one.

"What's going on here?" she asked, yawning and pulling herself up from where she'd been lying next to her wounded husband. To Vimes' surprise, she wasn't nearly as horrified as he'd expected her to be as he and Willikens explained the situation, and while they were doing that, Sybil, now awake, slipped into the room to hear the story as well. Adora asked to see the bottle Of the Twilight the Darkness had brought in and Vimes handed it to her. Of the Twilight the Darkness stopped struggling and trying to bite as soon as she had it in her hands. "Let him go, please," Adora said to Vimes.

"But . . . ."

"Of the Twilight the Darkness is a _shamegog_ ," Adora told them. "A goblin shaman. He makes special potions and puts them in bottles like this one to keep people from stealing them. If he says this contains medicine meant to help Moist, I believe him."

Vimes did recall some of the engineers on the train journey to Uberwald being given a potion to make them sleep and reawaken energized, but he'd had no idea where they might have gotten it from. He'd been too busy guarding the train to learn all the details. Still uncertain it was the right thing to do, he lowered the angry little goblin to the floor and watched Of the Twilight the Darkness clamber onto the bed and take up a position next to Adora.

"You must give to him," Of the the Twilight the Darkness said, pointing to the still unconscious Moist. "Very powerful medicine. Will make all better. You will see."

To Vimes' and Willikens' unease, Adora moved closer to Moist and gave every sign of being willing to pour the liquid inside the bottle into his mouth.

"Sir, I really think one of us should test what's in that bottle before . . . ." Willikens whispered and the goblin heard him and hissed again.

"No," Of the Twilight the Darkness glared at them. "None must be wasted! _None_! All is needed for medicine to work!"

"I trust him, Commander," Adora said with a sad smile. "Even if it's hard to wish for miracles right now." She leaned over Moist and began tapping him gently on one shoulder and calling his name, until he stirred and blearily opened his one good eye. "Moist, we need you to take something that is going to make you feel better."

Moist moaned something that sounded like an assent.

Adora removed the stopper from the glass bottle and, cradling Moist's head in her free hand, began giving him Of the Twilight the Darkness' potion. Vimes was riveted by the scene as, with a goblin perched over her shoulder, Adora Belle lovingly poured the contents of a bottle marked Rat Poison down her husband's throat.

"I never thought I'd hear myself saying this," he whispered to Sybil, "but I think their household may be even stranger than ours is."

Sybil patted him on the arm.

"We're not strange, Sam. We're _eccentric_."

As the last drop of potion vanished past Moist's swollen lips, his good eye widened and his upper body jerked upright for just a moment.

"That tastes won _-_ " he said. Then his eye rolled upward into his head, closed, and he collapsed back against the pillows and reverted to being motionless. Vimes hardly dared to breathe himself until he saw that Lipwig was still breathing too, asleep again, but with what might have been a slight smile on his battered features. Adora, Willikens, and Sybil exhaled, and Vimes realized that they'd been holding their breaths as well.

"He will be better," Of the Twilight the Darkness told Adora again. "You willsee."

All it would take, Vimes thought, is accomplishing the impossible . . . .

[* * * *]


	20. A New Pattern

Greebo didn't mind travel by broomstick – he was used to that. Travel by plummeting through holes in the dimensions of the multiverse was another matter. In space no one can hear you meow, and the distortions he saw all around him were enough to make him want to cough up a bucket of hairballs. Streams of golden sand came rushing past him every which way, curves of color, swirling stars. He felt the tap of a paw on his own and stared into the whiskered, scarred face of a cat that was himself – another Greebo. Not one to put up with that sort of thing, he leapt at himself, claws extended, fangs ready to bite. Instead of the expected impact, he felt a shimmery, slick sensation all over his fur, as if he were swimming through a giant, transparent jelly mold.

He landed in a strange new place among a field of maize stalks. Above him the sky had turned to night, which was odd since it had been broad daylight when he fell from the broom. That was all right – he'd gotten used to odd. Like how oddly quiet this farm field was . . . .

[* * * *]

It had been a long time since Mustrum Ridcully found a girl in his bedroom. He was a little disappointed to find one in there now and he hoped she wasn't his type.

"Ah, Miss Death, isn't it?" He recognized the young woman with the single black streak in her white hair as the entity he'd summoned with the Rite of Ashkente several years before, to help stop the problems caused by Music With Rocks In. And there had been that other business with the oh god! of hangovers and the Hogfather. "Have you, ah, come back for me then?"

"No. I've come to give you a warning instead."

"You know, coming from you that isn't a reassuring statement." The Archchancellor motioned Susan toward a comfortable chair in his room and took up another for himself. "Well, best be on with it."

"Actually, the warning isn't from me, it's from a witch named Granny Weatherwax." The young woman paced rather than taking the seat she'd been offered. "She meant to give it to you herself, but you weren't available at the time, and the person she gave it to isn't available to do so now. That's why I'm here. We need your help in preventing the end of the world."

Ridcully nodded and lit his pipe. This was going to be one of _those_ problems. The wizard listened patiently as Susan explained Granny Weatherwax's concerns about the laying of iron – the tracks, the mines, the tailings, and other deposits – and what it might be doing to the patterns of magic in the world.

"So that's the lot of it," she finished up, explaining as best she could Vetinari's theory about what sort of Balance might be disrupted without mentioning Vetinari himself or the Auditors. Somehow she had an intuition that it would be best to leave them out of the discussion. "Would it really be possible for the entire world to lose its balance and fall off the backs of the elephants?"

"Hm. Tricky." Ridcully puffed and blew a few smoke rings. "Have to consult with Hex and young Stibbons about that. Of course, the Disc wouldn't have to fall off the elephants to end life, or most life, per se. Tipping it the right bit would do the trick."

"What?"

"Oh, yes." Ridcully continued. "Happened several times before, you know. The scrolls of Blind Io have a thing or two to say about it, though I'm afraid my brother Hughnon is your expert there. But, say a major event happens – a MAJOR major event – such as a war between deities, demons, sourcerors, or a fifth elephant taking a wrong turn, that sort of thing – and it gets the whole Disc sloshed about as it were. Practically every living creature in the world vanishes and you have to start from scratch. Or whatever is left has to start from scratch. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"And that can happen even if the Disc stays balanced?"

Ridcully shook his head.

"But it wouldn't be balanced – that's the point. It might _look_ balanced, feel balanced, for a time. But the whole world doesn't have to come crashing down off of Great A'tuin or sail into a star to end most of Life as we know it. It would just be enough that something pushed the Disc past the ideal tipping point. It can be allowed to wobble just a certain amount, and it does so on its own anyway, which is fine as long as it always settles back to where it should be. But cross the critical tipping point that supports _our_ life and there's no going back from that. At least not for whatever of us creatures have the poor timing to be the lives in question. Now," he said, getting up from his chair, "I suggest we go wake up Professor Stibbons."

A short time later, the Head of Inadvisably Applied Magic sat in front of Hex with Archchancellor Ridcully, Susan, a headache, and a cup of coffee to which magic had been inadvisably applied.

"Hex," Stibbons sploke1 while typing at the massive keyboard, "please show us a map of the Disc, with what it would look like from above and with the known large deposits of iron and concentrations of other metals dug up in mining operations displayed, along with the known locations of railway lines, metal foundries, and metal mining waste pits."

Normally making such a request would have been an act of impossible denial, but recent improvements made to Hex by Hex itself, including the attachment of a crystal gazing ball to the front of the machine closest to a mouse nest had reduced it to a mere absurdity. As clanks, bubbles, squeaks, and an odd trilling sound ran up and down the lengths of Unseen University's great Thinking Engine, a fuzzy shape began to coalesce within the crystal ball.

"This might take a little while, Archchancellor." Stibbons tapped at various keys on the keyboard. "It's got a lot of data to consider."

"How long?"

"An hour?" Stibbons guessed. "Maybe two?"

"Well then," Ridcully turned to Susan, "perhaps we can go seek some refreshment while we wait?" Like all wizards, the Archchancellor had a firm belief in getting seven or eight square meals a day, if only because octagonal meals would have been dangerous.

Susan followed Ridcully toward one of Unseen University's many dining locales, but as they passed a room with University bledlows and alert young wizards holding their staffs at attention, something caught her notice. Susan put a hand on Ridcully's arm to halt him as she saw through the arches what they were guarding.

"Ah, yes," he said. "Our other guest. If you'd care to see him?"

On a marble slab, the body of Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, had been laid out exactly as he'd been found, in his customary black robe of office, pale skinned, eyes closed, no sign of breath or life.

"You . . . ." the Archchancellor hesitated, "didn't come for him, did you?"

Susan shook her head.

"And I don't suppose you'd care to enlighten us as to whether your grandfather might be coming for him soon or not?"

"You'd have to ask him that," Susan said. "It's not really for me to say." She paused, though, to stare at the unmoving body. There was something pathetic about it, something very alone in spite of the presence of the guards. "What's Vetinari doing here? Couldn't anyone take care of him at the Palace?"

"Someone already tried to take care of him at the Palace – that's why he's here," Ridcully commented. "Not that we like to get involved in political matters you understand."

"Doesn't he have any friends? Or anyone else?"

"I believe Mr. Rufus Drumknott the secretary considers himself to be his lordship's friend. And I understand he has very cordial relations with Lady Margolotta of Uberwald. Possibly with some of the other rulers." Ridcully shrugged. "One doesn't go into his line of work to make friends."

"Why do it then?"

"Why become a wizard, or become what you or your grandfather are? Someone has to fill the job. In any event, we'll be getting a new Patrician soon. There is never a shortage of contenders. One has apparently declared already, and there will be others soon, I'm sure."

To the visible relief of the bledlows, the Archchancellor moved on and encouraged Susan to follow him. In the University Late Night Dining Room he tucked into a light snack of sausages, cold meat pie, pickled vegetables, a selection of cheeses, buttered rolls and relishes with a custard trifle, though his female companion had little appetite for food or conversation. He had just selected a spiced pear tartlet to follow up the trifle when Ponder Stibbons came galloping toward them.

"Archchancellor, Miss – Hex is getting somewhere with the map, and I really think you'd better come take a look!"

In the crystal ball, a map of the Discworld seen from above had come into sharp focus, with the seas, rivers, mountains and continents all carefully delineated. The other data points that Stibbons had requested were not so clearly focused, little fuzzy black dots and lines popping in here and there as they watched, but already a distinct pattern was becoming visible. Areas of black criss-crossed the land masses of the Disc forming a partially complete symbol that even a non-wizard could recognize.

"Oh," said the Archchancellor.

"An octogram," Susan whispered. "It's an octogram of iron."

Ponder Stibbons only blinked his eyes and gulped more coffee. All the while, black dots continued to fill in the image.

"What could happen if the octogram becomes complete?" Susan asked. "Would it be enough to upset the Disc?"

From far beneath the machinery that supported Hex, and spreading through the lower floors of the University came a rumbling that rattled the ant tubes and metal gears of the thinking engine and made candles flicker in their sconces.

"Young lady," Ridcully put a hand on her arm to steady them both, "I believe we may be about to find out."

[* * * *]

1 A form of communication in which a person of magical nature can, with a sufficient hangover, cause the thudding within their head to sound harmonically with their voice on the outside thus producing an effect not unlike what one would get by cross breeding a person with set of bongo drums. Occasionally curable through inadvisably applied magical coffee.


	21. A Miracle and its Price

The sun rose long before Sam Vimes did. He'd had a hard time getting back to sleep after the midnight commotion between Willikens and Of the Twilight the Darkness and for once, Sybil's reassuring presence next to him in the bed hadn't been enough to help. There were too many problems tag team wrestling at the back of his brain to let him rest. But he had gotten to sleep eventually and Sybil must have decided to let him sleep in today. More than that – did he smell . . . . bacon? _And_ sausage? _And_ pancakes? _And_ potatoes? The scents drifting upstairs from the first floor made him think he might still be dreaming. Although he and Sybil had imported some extra cook staff from her family's estate in the countryside, the former Crundells residents had been initiated into Sybil's conspiracy to keep him healthy and allow him only a 'good' diet. What Sybil and Dr. Lawn considered a good diet for Vimes seemed to involve an awful lot of foul tasting stuff made from fibers. Veg and fruit and whole grain products and more to the point, not nearly enough bacon!

Dr. Lawn . . . yes, that's right . . . . Vimes' still half-asleep brain nagged at him. Coming back to the mansion today to check on his patient. As Vimes discarded his nightshirt and pulled on some fresh clothing, he wished he didn't have to think about that situation again. It was too depressing. Maybe Of the Twilight the Darkness meant well after all, but what good could any goblin potion do when nothing else could help?

Vimes had washed his face off in cold water and given himself a quick once over with his shaving razor when he heard Dr. Lawn's voice in the hall, and went out to meet him. Mossy must have just arrived and Willikens, with one hand in need of a checkup itself, was gingerly knocking on the door of the guest room as a precaution before allowing the doctor to enter. No response – Adora must still be asleep. Vimes watched as Willikens opened the door for Dr. Lawn, but was caught off guard by the doctor's startled and loud exclamation which could be heard clearly in the hallway.

"Good lords! What's happened to his face?"

Vimes was only a pace or two behind the butler as they both raced into the guest room for the second time in less than twelve hours. At first Vimes wondered if Of the Twilight the Darkness' potion might have given Moist a mutant goblin appearance – you never knew with magic. But what Vimes saw instead, what they all saw, was a sound asleep Moist von Lipwig looking exactly as he normally did – without the bruises, without an eye swollen shut or a split lip. The cuts and contusions that had marked his face were gone without a trace. Adora saw it too, since she had evidently been awakened by Willikens' knock and the yell and was staring at her husband in mute astonishment. Dr. Lawn lifted the edge of the blanket to examine the rest of his patient and rolled up the sleeve of a nightshirt borrowed from Vimes that fit the smaller man like a tent. The arm showed no trace of bruising either, and as the doctor carefully unwrapped the bandage he'd put around the wrist, they all moved in for a closer look. There was dried blood on the bandage to show where an injury had been, but no sign of a wound remained on the wrist itself.

"It's like some kind of miracle," Dr. Lawn whispered.

"Moist has a reputation for those, doctor," Adora said with only the slightest catch in her voice. She looked down to where the blankets still covered the lower half of his body. "You don't suppose . . . ?"

As they watched, the man in the bed turned in his sleep, yawned, stretched, and both of his legs moved and stretched with him. Before any of them could react, Moist suddenly sat bolt upright in bed with a huge grin.

" _-_ derful!" He whooped, blinked, shook the sleep out of his eyes, grabbed Adora and planted a big, wet kiss directly on her lips. "Morning, Spike!"

"Moist, are you . . . ? I mean, how are you feeling?" She was staring at him as if he'd just turned as gold as his taste in men's wear.

"Fantastic! Never better!" He began kissing her again before noticing out of the corner of his eye Commander Vimes, the butler, and Dr. Lawn all watching them in gape-mouthed amazement. "Um, we seem to have an audience," he murmured.

"You know what?" she smiled back as she wrapped both arms around him and started nuzzling his neck. "I don't care!"

Moist obviously didn't either, and Vimes, Lawn and Willikens made a hasty exit from the room before the couple could give Mossy something to _really_ add to the medical journals.

"Vimes," Dr. Lawn stammered, "I haven't been drinking anything, have I?"

"No idea," Vimes answered. "I know _I_ haven't, and I just saw the same thing you did. Yesterday he was more dead than alive and today-" he broke off and moved further down the hall as they heard some clunking noises coming from the room, "-they're testing the integrity of the furniture. I didn't think a potion was capable of doing something like that."

"A potion?"

Vimes explained about the bottle of non-Rat Poison from Of the Twilight the Darkness, and the confrontation that had taken place the night before.

"A potion capable of curing _anything_ , Vimes?" the doctor goggled. "Do you realize what this means?"

"That it wouldn't be particularly good for your business?"

"Who cares about that?" Lawn waved expansively with his arms. "I don't! It means we could heal all the sick and wounded people in the world and . . . . where do we get this stuff?"

As it turned out, the individual who might have the answer to that question was close at hand. Of the Twilight the Darkness had been in the guest room when Vimes had left it last night, but the goblin shamegog now sat hunched in a corner of the downstairs hall, looking surprisingly dejected and miserable for someone who had just performed a miracle. Dr. Lawn wasted no time in congratulating him on healing an injury that even an Igor couldn't have dealt with and, of course, asking how to get more of the miraculous substance, but Of the Twilight the Darkness only shook his head.

"Is no more. Ever."

"You mean you won't make it again?"

"Not won't. Can't." Of the Twilight the Darkness insisted. "Rarest ingredient of all needed to make potion. Used it up. Now no more left and never have again."

"So it was a one-shot deal?" Vimes asked. The goblin nodded.

 _And to think we almost dumped it out!_ No wonder Of the Twilight the Darkness had fought and bitten like a fiend when Willikens had taken the bottle away from him. But it was clear that the all-or-nothing gambit had cost Of the Twilight the Darkness something valuable. What had that potion been made of? Then again, with goblins it was often better not to ask . . . .

For a man who'd just had his dream waved in front of his face and then snatched away, Dr. Lawn took the news well.

"After all, we still got one miracle," he pointed out, "and I never thought we'd get that! Well done!"

So instead of healing the world, Mossy would have to settle for having the best, if not healthiest, breakfast he or Vimes had seen in months. After the upheavals of the past few days and with the unexpected company in the house, Sybil had evidently ordered the kitchen staff to go all out and make brunch for a brigade. Sybil also more or less ordered Of the Twilight the Darkness to stop moping in the hallway and come in and eat something as well, even if rat had been left off the menu. The goblin did seem to be consoled when, half an hour later, Moist and Adora in ill-fitting borrowed clothing walked into the dining room hand in hand to join them.

"Sorry – feel like I haven't eaten in days," Moist mumbled in between mouthfuls as he wolfed down multiple platefuls of food.

"Because you haven't," Adora pointed out, as she made up for a couple of lost days herself.

"No need to apologize, Mr. Lipwig," Sybil enthused. "It's so good to see you up and around again."

"Er, yes," Moist seemed as puzzled by this as Dr. Lawn had been. "Didn't I get pulverized or something? I'd swear I remember that." In fact, he more than remembered it, and Vimes risked Sybil's disapproval by going back into City Watch mode and trying to pry him for any details he could recall, however unappetizing. Moist hadn't recognized any of his attackers, although he was able to tell Vimes and the assembled company that the man apparently in charge had been a Mr. Witworth, and the troll's name had been Albite. He recalled all too well being crushed to the point of hearing his spine crack and losing consciousness. But he had to be filled in on everything that had happened to him after that, and knew nothing at all of any Lord Melborn Snike.

"Never heard of him," Moist frowned. "I've travelled plenty of places in my life, but I'm pretty sure Zlobenia wasn't one of them. So why go after me?"

"That's what we're still working on," Vimes said. "But in the meantime, you're not going anywhere without an escort, you _or_ Adora. It's bad enough Vetinari is out of commission, and Lord Snike has set himself up as my chief suspect for _that_. I don't think he counted on the crowd reaction he got yesterday, but if he wants to go after either of you again, or the Post Office, or the Bank, or the Mint _or_ the Clacks, he's not getting a second chance. If the Golem Trust has any golems available for hire at all, I'll authorize it and pay 'em myself if I have to. The Watch needs all the help it can get."

"There aren't many," Adora told him. "I was able to borrow Pump 19 since he's between jobs for the Palace right now. But with all the added demand from the railway, the Trust has got maybe four golems for hire at most. I don't even know what happened to Pump 19 or Sander 5 after I left them at Sator Square." She looked over at Of the Twilight the Darkness and her voice caught for a second time that morning. "I can also ask the goblins employed by the Grand Trunk to help the Watch out, but I think I already owe one of them more than I can ever repay."

Of the Twilight the Darkness shook his head.

"Decision was mine to make. Told you that Mr. Very Humid would be better and he is. That is enough." But the melancholy way in which the goblin said it was unmistakable.

"I think _I_ owe you something," Moist insisted quietly. "If what Dr. Lawn told us is true, you're the only reason I'm not crippled for life. And you gave me the only one of that potion you can ever make?"

"Yes. Ingredient is no longer found among goblin kind. Not any more that I know of, and that is a good thing."

"It is?"

All of the humans around the table felt a little uncomfortable with that statement. Dr. Lawn could no longer contain his curiosity.

"So just what _is_ that potion made from?" he asked.

"Hope for the future," Of the Twilight the Darkness answered. "All of one goblin's hope, saved in the unggue pot."

"Not yours?" Moist's jaw dropped in horror at the idea.

"No," the goblin explained. "In the bad times, some goblins – very, very few – gave up keeping all hope in self and stored it away in pots. Was less painful for them than carrying hope inside self. Easier not to lose. Now goblins are people, and times not so bad, we no longer do this. Goblins who stored up all hope outside selves take it back within. But some goblins died before getting hope back inside. They are gone, but the hope remains, stored in the unggue pot. Families keep."

"The potion is made from the jar-preserved hope of dead goblins?" Dr. Lawn sighed. "Yes, I suppose it's a good thing if thatisn't being made any more."

"But if these pots were given to the families of the goblins who made them, and you had one of them," Moist stammered, "that means . . . . yourfamily . . . ?"

Of the Twilight the Darkness nodded.

"Goblin was Mist of the Morning. My sister." The shamegog looked him sharply in the eye. "I put in you all of her hope that is left so you can keep yours. Is the most powerful medicine I can ever make. It is my gift to you and Mrs. Adora, Mr. Moist von Lipwig, for now. Use it well."

The dining room filled with the silence that followed as the man who normally had no trouble finding words for anything was stunned speechless.

"Thank you," he finally managed to whisper. It sounded so inadequate, Moist thought, but what else could he say? How do you thank someone for giving you the last remnant they had of a loved one? How do you live up to a gift like that? Fortunately, Of the Twilight the Darkness didn't seem to expect anything more of him, right then, anyway. Instead, the goblin turned his attention away from Moist and toward Commander Vimes.

"And now, Mr. Big Polees – man," Of the Twilight the Darkness grinned his not-very-friendly, toothy goblin grin, "we have a common enemy. So what you propose we do about him, eh?"

[* * * *]


	22. The Play's the Thing

Igor was the first to notice the tremor. In fact, owing to the unusual, improbable and in some cases barely more than theoretical equipment he kept in the Forensics Unit laboratory at Pseudopolis Yard, he was the only person outside of Unseen University to notice the tremor at all. He checked the graphs, needles and readouts of his seize-mometer very carefully and was disconcerted to observe that another tremor had taken place around midnight the night before, and he had slept right through that one.

"I mutht be lothing my edge," he scolded himself. But like all Igors, he knew that there was always a risk of losing more than that. Exterior bits could be replaced with other exterior bits. Interior bits too, most of the time. It was the prospect of ceasing to exist at all that made Igors pay extra close attention to abnormal ground vibrations. As a clan they had plenty of familiarity with that sort of phenomenon being generated by a howling mob, usually in the vicinity of pitchforks, castles, windmills and the residences of anyone who liked to be addressed as "Yeth, Marthter." So a smart Igor paid careful attention to his seize-mometer as well as to the volume of a Marthter's insane laughter and cleared out well ahead of time. The riot which had taken place at Sator Square posed no problem, and unusual vibrations came from the University all the time, especially from the High Energy Magic Building. But these new tremors didn't seem to be of that variety, or even the howling mob variety. Igor checked, double checked, then re-rechecked the readouts from the machine for accuracy. It was as if the entire planet had shifted ever so slightly in motion according to the device.

"Thtrange . . . ."

[* * * *]

The writing was on the wall and it said everything – Nuts to the Smuts!

Smalldab balled up his hands into fists and spat. So they all thought it was funny, did they? Not if you were a Smut it wasn't. Sure, the Pustulent Cysts and the Dolly Sisters Dog Turds might think it was all up for Smalldab and his mates, but he'd show them! Just as soon as he could stop screaming at the sight of a fruit basket, anyway . . . .

Smalldab had to be careful in this 'enemy' neighborhood. Old Peculiar Street was no longer safe. Oozy Walters had seen the Librarian swinging around the roof tops and none of them wanted to risk another encounter with _him_. But if the Dog Turds caught a Smut on their turf, the end result wouldn't be much better. Smalldab had needed to duck into the back of the old Dolly Sisters Little Playhouse to avoid one of their patrols already, and the dust in the Playhouse storage area was enough to make a zombie sneeze.

One thing back here that wasn't dusty though – someone had left a fresh box of play scripts on a chair. Smalldab moved in for a closer look. Play scripts weren't the same as books, exactly, but they had words in them, and destroying words – wasn't that the mainly bad thing the Smuts were trying to accomplish? These could count, couldn't they? If the Librarian was hanging out near Old Peculiar Street, he wouldn't be here, would he? Right.

Smalldab felt in his pocket for the last of the matches – yes. They were still there. He could do this! Checking both directions out in the alley way to make sure the coast was clear, he grabbed the box of scripts, planted it in the exact middle of the alley, lit a match, dropped it on the top script and ran. The pavement outside was still wet from the previous night's rain. With any luck, nothing but the scripts would burn and then the other gangs would know who they were dealing with! Now the Smuts were getting somewhere! Now they'd strike terror in the hearts of the city! He could hardly wait to get home and tell his Mam!

[* * * *]

Making it to the top job in the Assassins' Guild has its advantages. Learning not to let oneself be caught off guard was a prerequisite, of course, but the successful candidate enjoyed the ultimate in privacy, private office spaces, and private entrances. Clients wishing to engage the Guild had the expectation of discretion. For them, the strictly non-public doorway and corridor was made available, and anyone wishing to spy on the Guild's clientele became entitled to a free sample of the Guild's stock in trade. Lord Downey, in this case, was half tempted to give his visitor that sample as well.

"Come on, old chap – let's be reasonable!" Lord Melborn Snike tutted. "A simple exception, that's all there is to it. Young Sorville's family has been our retainers for generations – you know they have. And it was one little task for me off the books – a favor, nothing more. You and I have known each other for so many years, what's one little favor, eh?"

"Overlooking a violation of Guild rules is not 'one little' favor," Lord Downey stated. "It also isn't going to happen on my watch. You know me well enough to know that. What is more, 'young Sorville' is thirty-five - hardly the age of ignorance."

"No, that's more what we were at when we went to school together here. Those were the grand days, weren't they?" Snike reminisced. "You, me and Artie Ludorum having a good old time down at the Drum."

Lord Downey remembered it more as himself, Ludo and Melborn Snike's money having a good old time there and everywhere else that the money would take them, but he saw no need to tell Snike that. After all, Snike hadn't been one of the 'real' Assassin's Guild students like Downey was. The man had held his place as just another pretty, spoiled, rich boy taking classes at the Guild, and as someone who liked to hang out with the true diploma candidates and was willing to pay for the privilege. Lord Downey had been hoping that the Guild – and its Master – could pocket quite a bit more of that money and perhaps enjoy increased clout in the Rats Chamber if Snike succeeded to the Oblong Office, but that didn't seem likely now.

"Remember how we used to poke fun at old Have-not Vetinari?" Snike continued. "What was it you used to call him again? Dog-Botherer, wasn't it?"

"Ye-es," Lord Downey drawled. He didn't like being reminded of something he'd worked so hard to forget, especially now that he owed the 'Dog-Botherer' not only his current lordly title but in all likelihood the sparing of his life as well. Downey had also called Lord Melborn 'Smelly Melly' behind his back, but there was no need to point that out either.

"Let me put it to you this way, then," Lord Snike suggested. "You go ahead and expel our Mr. Sorville and slap him with a big fine or whatever you need to do to satisfy Guild honor. Then maybe after I'm in a better position, say for a fee, a large fee, we have him reinstated. Does that sound like a plan?"

"It certainly does," Lord Downey conceded. _A madman's plan, anyway._ Lord Downey had every intention of doing 'whatever' he needed to satisfy the Guild's honor and reputation. He supposed there was always the possibility that Mr. Sorville could come back as a zombie. This was Ankh-Morpork, land of opportunity, after all. If Lord Snike was willing to pay well enough, Sorville could be reinstated - and re-inhumed - however many times it took until the bits and pieces stopped coming back.

"Good, good," Lord Snike smacked his hands together. "I'm so glad we could have this chat. You won't regret it."

"I'm sure I won't either," Lord Downey smiled. But the smile soon disappeared and he was glad when his 'old friend' had left the office to slip back unseen into the bowels of the Great Wahoonie again. What had Downey ever been thinking to make an offer of support for Smelly Melly when Snike had first come to him with his joke of a plan? There was all the money, of course. But some other things hadn't changed in thirty eight years – the man was still a complete scag.

[* * * *]

"An outrage!" Professor Hix, Head of the Department of Post Mortem Communications slapped his hand down flat on the Uncommon Room table hard enough for the palm side of his skull ring to leave a mark. "Ten copies of _Death of a Talisman_ and at least nine of _A Troll Tram Named Desirus_ all burned to a crisp! What sort of uncultured heathen would do a thing like that?"

"Maybe a theater patron who didn't feel he got his money's worth out of _The Full Bronte_?" Professor Bengo Macarona, D. Thau. suggested. He himself had been bitterly disappointed to realize that the Dolly Sisters Little Playhouse version of _Withering Tights_ did not include any actual nudity. Not that he had any desire to see his fellow Unseen Academical in the all-together, but the cast had also included the luscious Lila La Lemonrind, whose heavenly body had nothing to do with astronomy. In his native city, Bengo hadn't needed to resort to the likes of the Pink Pussycat Club to get a thrill. If he'd seen _The Full Bronte_ there, you could bet that some tights would have withered before the second act. But you just couldn't find the Genuan article here.

"I'm serious," Professor Hix scowled. Indeed, there were few things the Necro Facilitator of Vitality Challenged Interactions took more seriously than his local amateur theater acting hobby. One could only spend so much time as the officially appointed evil wizard of Unseen University without a chance to broaden one's cultural horizons, especially after listening to talking skulls and resentful shades of the abyss half the dead long day.

Rincewind, the University's Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography, sat at the table listening to the conversation but (as usual) saying nothing and doing as little to attract attention to himself as possible. Like the others from the University's Unseen Academicals team, he enjoyed sharing a table during foot-the-ball Off Season, if only because no one was trying to stomp his knees into nut butter or tear his head off and stuff a bladder-filled ball down his neck at the time. The unofficial Unseen Academicals table was where the Librarian often preferred to relax and snack these days too, and he and Rincewind still got on well. The Librarian had never tried to kill him, which definitely made him Rincewind's preferred company.

The Librarian was just entering the Uncommon Room and appeared to have a more content look on his face than he had in days. Rincewind was surprised - he knew the Librarian had been troubled by the Patrician's condition, and he'd expected the Librarian to spend most of his days sulking under a blanket in the Library as he sometimes did when stressed. But wherever the Librarian had been swinging off to this week, it must have lifted his spirits.

"Ook?" the Librarian greeted Rincewind.

"Good, thanks – and you?"1

"Ook." The Librarian glanced over to where Professor Hix and Professor Macarona were engaged in earnest discussion of something. "Ook?"

"Oh, Professor Hix was just telling us . . . ." Rincewind broke off as it suddenly occurred to him that the Librarian might become a bit concerned2 by the topic of argument at hand.

"Ook?"

"I mean, burning scripts – words! – who would do such a thing?" Professor Hix' voice carried down the table.

"Ook!"

[* * * *]

1 It should be noted that Rincewind's facility with language makes him one of the few members of the Unseen Univerity staff who can understand what the Librarian is saying virtually all the time. He also finds it handy for being able to say "Please don't kill me!" in over 400 separate dialects.

2 i.e. frothing furious.


	23. The Auditors Advance

In the solitude of the HOUSE of Death, Vetinari had been staring into the blue and black sands of his personal lifetimer for what might have been hours if time passed in this place. Ready answers had stopped coming from it. They did not come from anyone or anything else either. The five Horsemen of the Apocalypse and the crimson Auditors had ridden or glided off. Lu-Tze and Albert had vanished somewhere, and Susan Sto Helit had not yet returned. Only he, Havelock Vetinari, remained trapped at this crossover junction on the dark and starry plain beyond the realm of the Living. Or so he thought until he was reminded of the presence of the Rat of Death.

SQUEAK.

Vetinari spoke many languages, but Dead Rat apparently wasn't one of them. He understood that the small skeleton in the black robe wanted something from him, but he had no idea what. He did the only thing he could do, which was follow the creature as it led him back toward the entrance of the HOUSE and back out onto the starry plain.

The Rat of Death moved quickly, without scurrying somehow, and even though mostly dead Vetinari still had his Assassin's reflexes and no game leg, it wasn't easy to keep up with the little creature. While he was inside the HOUSE, Vetinari had the impression that its space was infinite, but from the outside, he walked around it as if it were no larger than one of the wealthy mansions that lined Scoone Avenue or its surrounding neighborhood. Out behind the HOUSE he encountered another surprise – the flash of color brought onto the starry plain by a living cornfield. Here in the middle of neverwhere it appeared as out of place as Albert's warm and cozy library had been inside. Such a simple, ordinary item, a cornfield, yet he stared at it in wonder for a moment before following the small black robe and scythe within.

[-]

Greebo felt a liquidy, familiar flowing in his limbs and when he looked down at his paws he saw four long, pinkish things – fingers - and a thumb sticking off the end of each foreleg. He was a changed person again. Ever since Nanny Ogg and the witches had cast a spell to alter his morphic field and turn him into a coachman, he'd had a tendency now and again to take on the same human shape. Greebo didn't like being human. It was confusing, clawless, it caused him to feel cold, and made it much, much harder for him to lick himself all over. He hoped this change wouldn't last. The important thing, he knew from past experience, was to remain calm. He'd be back in his correct shape in no time at all if he remained calm.

Greebo had only just managed to pull himself upright on his two funny pink rear paws when he heard a rustling in the upper stalks of maize and the caw of a raven. It had been a long haul since breakfast and his stomach started rumbling, so he headed in the direction of lunch. Moving as silently as he could in this big, clumsy body, he had almost reached his target when two things happened: another human, a man with a black beard and mustache, burst out of a row of maize right in front of him, and the raven began cawing and shouting at him.

"Awrk! Live thing! You don't belong here!" The black bird screeched as it flapped away.

Greebo wailed his disappointment and took off after it, leaving the puzzled other human behind.

[-]

Susan Sto Helit cursed under her breath and felt the reassuring weight of the Sword of Death and its scabbard at her side. Even Death's own weapons were no use against the Auditors of Reality unless an Auditor believed the weapon would work. The Auditor whose attack she'd just escaped had believed in the power of the Sword, but its companions were less troubled by self doubt. Now she was surrounded, with no firm shelter between her and a sea of grey robes with no faces. She backed herself further into the cornfield and had to bite down on her lip to avoid making any sound when someone tapped her on the shoulder. Then she had to refrain from running the shoulder-tapper through with the weapon as she whipped around to face him.

Vetinari! What was he doing out here?

"Hel-" he began to say before she motioned for him to be quiet. She didn't have to gesture twice. Silently they retreated from the edge of the field to move closer toward its center. She ducked, restrained Vetinari with a hand, and pointed upward for his gaze to follow as a grey-robed Auditor floated overhead. They hardly dared breathe if they wished to avoid detection, and while the Auditors remained in their original form, what one knew, all knew.

That may have worked to Susan and Vetinari's advantage in this instance. The Auditor hovered for just a moment almost directly over them, but it turned in another direction and hovered off at speed without spotting them, distracted by the call of its kind.

SQUEAK.

Susan looked down and saw the Death of Rats at her feet, pointing his mini scythe in a distinct direction. Unlike Vetinari, Susan never had any trouble understanding what the Death of Rats was saying.

"We can make for Binky's stable," Susan whispered to Vetinari. "Quoth and 'After' Edwards are distracting them for us."

"You lead the way," Vetinari whispered back, not asking her any other questions for the moment. He followed her so quietly that Susan stopped a couple of times just to make sure he was still there. At one edge of the cornfield nearest Death's small barn, they peered out toward the stable. No grey robes of anything or nothing could be seen here. With Death's Sword sheathed to avoid attracting attention, Susan made a dash from the corn rows to the barn building. She looked back again to see if Vetinari was behind her and he was – when she'd turned around. He had gotten to the stable before her while she wasn't watching.

SQUEAK. Death of Rats interjected before she could argue. He pointed the way into the stable and they both slipped in and shut and barred the door behind them.

"Not that this would keep them out for long. Or at all," Susan commented as she drew the wooden board and metal bolt home. "The Death of Rats says they already searched this building and didn't find anything of interest, so they won't even think to look here again. They've got no sense of imagination whatsoever."

"Binky?" Vetinari asked. "Quoth? 'After' Edwards?"

"Binky is the name of grandfather's stallion," Susan explained. "Quoth is a raven who hangs around and gives a lift to the Death of Rats when he asks. Not that the Death of Rats really needs him. Quoth says he's only in it for the eyeballs."

SQUEAK.

"And you do not need a horse either!" Susan glared down at the rodent reaper. "Don't start that again!"

"It would have to be a very small horse," Vetinari observed.

"Oh, don't encourage him!" The truth was, Susan had all she could do to tolerate the Death of Rats' very existence, and didn't want her grandfather experimenting with anything that had hooves, especially if it involved making still another alternate version of himself. She was not given to nightmares, but she dreaded the day she might come for a visit and find a Death of Cows peering out at her from under an obsidian barn blanket and going MOO.

"Who is 'After' Edwards?" Vetinari gently reminded her.

"I'm a ghost," a vibrating baritone voice came from one wall before the translucent form of a man in an operatic buccaneer costume floated through it. "Or so I'm told."

"None of _them_ saw you come in here just now, did they?" Susan hissed at the ghost.

The theatrical figure placed one hand over its button-festooned breast and another across its tri-corner cap-adorned forehead in mock despair.

"Gracious Lady! Forsooth, I am wounded to the quick!"

"Yes," Susan commented. "You were – about six months ago. Grandfather did try telling you that at the time." She turned to Vetinari. "Grandfather gets them here every so often, people who manage to make it this far but still won't leave their former existences behind all the way. We call him 'After' Edwards because he refuses to be known as the Late Mr. Edwards."

"I have never been late in my entire life," the ghost insisted, which was true, depending on how one looked at it. "And no, I have not been followed."

"Thank the small gods for small favors," Susan groaned, before slouching down on a hay bale. "What else could go wrong today?"

"Would this be a bad time to mention that I ran into a naked man with an eye patch in the cornfield who meowed at me and ran away?" Vetinari asked. "Does this sort of thing often happen here?"

"No. Never before," Susan shook her head. "I was returning from the world after giving the Archchancellor Granny Weatherwax's message and I walked straight into an ambush. These aren't our friendly red Auditors – they're the nasty ones, and they're all over the place. They're even going into my grandfather's house – without asking. That's against all the rules!"

"But didn't you tell me earlier that if they break the rules, that allows your grandfather to go after them and take them out?"

"Yes, but they don't seem concerned about that," Susan frowned. "Grandfather isn't here right now, but even if he was, it doesn't seem like they'd be afraid of him for some reason. There must be thousands of them out there in the fields, and more inside the house. Who knows what they could be doing in there?"

"Smashing the hourglasses?" Vetinari wondered aloud.

"No," Susan said with the only bit of relief she'd felt since her return from Ankh-Morpork. "That Hall is protected even from them. Grandfather and I alone can go in there or give others the ability to enter, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have given _these_ Auditors an invite. All of the lifetimers should be safe for now."

"Including this one?" Vetinari held out his personal lifetimer with its blue and black streams of sand. Susan's eyes widened as she saw the hourglass.

"Oh!" she said.

"Oh. Indeed." Vetinari returned the lifetimer to his pocket. "So what is their plan then, do you suppose? If they have lost their fear of Death himself, that is?"

"I don't know. They're doing their best to keep him preoccupied though. You were right – or rather you and Granny Weatherwax were – about all the moved-around iron deposits interfering in the balance of the Disc." Susan told him, the Death of Rats and 'After' Edwards about the Iron Octogram and Archchancellor Ridcully's grim predictions of what it could accomplish.

"The Disc is already dangerously close to the vital tipping point, and that pattern has to be one the Auditors have been working on for a very long time. Ridcully thinks the witches have been trying to shore things up, and the wizards are starting to do that too, now that they know what the problem is. But it may be too late. Magical devices like the broomsticks and flying carpets are starting to malfunction already," she explained. "It's going to take half the University staff just to stabilize the University itself and all of its magical devices before they explode or worse."

"Is the City Watch doing anything about this?" Vetinari asked.

"Like what?" she shrugged. "I doubt they've even noticed – the wizards hadn't had time to tell them yet, and the Archchancellor said they've had their hands full anyway. There's been a riot and someone trying to take over the city in your place or something."

"Take over the city . . . or something," Vetinari repeated slowly, and steepled his hands together in thought. "Young lady, I wish you wouldn't be so flippant about it."

"I'm not," she snapped. "But we're talking about the fate of our entire world here! Not just one city, whether it's Ankh-Morpork or not. You have to look at the Big Picture."

"I thought I was . . . ." his voice trailed off. He pulled out the hourglass with his life in it and had no trouble seeing in its glints of sand the parts of his past that he always forced himself to remember though he rather would not.

 _His parents dead . . . . John Keel lying cold on the pavement . . . . seven almost forgotten graves in the cemetery at Small Gods . . . . the last time he saw his Aunt . . . . and the way Tears of the Mushroom's harp music had made him remember it all at once . . . . the good and the bad both . . . . the lives he'd spared . . . . the lives he hadn't . . . . the rights of other races that he and Lady Margolotta had fought for . . . . Mr. Nutt and his kind . . . . a goblin girl who could change the world . . . . and make her race be seen as people . . . ._

"I can see the Big Picture," Vetinari said at last. "But it is important to see the _whole_ picture, and that includes the small pictures, the details, as well. Single lives matter. Individuals matter. I hope you and your grandfather haven't collected so many of them that you've forgotten that?"

Susan had no answer for that.

"Apparently I mattered in the wrong way as well as in the right way, the way I strived for more than you can possibly know, for nearly my whole life. I still cannot recall ever agreeing to allow the Auditors to take me over, to manipulate me into doing harm to our world. I've had too much evidence shown me to deny that it's true at this point." He shook his lifetimer again. "But if I became an authority figure, a tyrant if you will, I did so for one reason only, and it wasn't for the purpose of annoying you. I became Patrician because I care about all those individuals in that city down there. I care about them having _lives_ and not just existences. I gave up the prospect of having a 'normal' life for myself because I've seen with my own eyes what all the paranoid idiots and self-serving, greedy monsters who preceded me did to the people of Ankh-Morpork and to anyone else who got in their way. Perhaps you have a justified grievance against me, _Miss Susan_ , but if we are going to see the Big Picture and save the world, we can't do it by not caring about its individual parts. So please, for the time being, hate me in private all you want but don't snort at the little pictures. Let us work together on finding a solution."

Whatever response Susan might have given him was cut off by a loud tapping on the stable door and the caw of a raven.

"Rawk! Let me in!" Quoth cried.

SQUEAK. The Death of Rats commanded, and 'After' Edwards stuck the top half of his translucent body through the barred entrance.

"No Auditors," the ghostly thespian said as he popped all the way back into the stable. "Just the talking bird and a meowing man."

SQUEAK.

"All right, all right," Susan told the Death of Rats. She unbarred the stable door with as little noise as possible. "In, you two - quick!"

Quoth didn't need urging. The raven flapped into the rafters above Binky's stall as soon as the door had cracked wide enough to let him through. The naked man with the eye patch came chasing after the bird, making chattering sounds with his teeth and tongue while waving and clawing at the air in frustration.

"Awk! Stop trying to eat me, whisker-brain!" Quoth scolded down at his pursuer while Susan closed and slid the bolts back on the door. "Or I'll go after your good eye!"

"And did you take the first one?" Susan asked in an unamused fashion.

"Rahk! Of course not!" Quoth flapped. "He came that way! I just saved his life!" The raven settled down onto a wooden perch. "He's not bad at making some of the Auditors go pop though! Mwahk!"

"What?" Susan and Vetinari said at the same time. Susan was about to say something else, but at that moment the naked man spotted the Death of Rats and judging by his posture had decided that the bird might no longer be the most tempting object in the room. Hunching down on all fours and twitching his muscular butt up into the air, giving the assembled company a much clearer view of his backside than they needed, he began creeping through the straw of the floor toward the skeleton rodent in the robe.

SQUEAK.

The naked man jerked backwards sharply enough to elevate himself off the ground for a split non-second, tossing up a cloud of straw dust as he landed. He hadn't expected the rodent-thing to have a scythe or a VOICE. His one eye regarded the little creature suspiciously. Then he backed up, hunched down and began to crawl forward again, tensing his buttocks as he prepared to spring.

"No!" Susan hissed. "BAD KITTY!"

The naked man jumped back even harder this time, and abandoned any attempt at hunting the rodent-thing in his confusion. It was bad enough that the rodent-thing had the VOICE. But he knew all too well what words of power could do when coming from mysterious looking women.

"Meow?" He said before hunching miserably in one corner of the stable.

Susan shook her head and groaned.

"You are one very badly screwed up little pussy cat, aren't you?"

"That man is a cat?" Vetinari asked.

"Yes," she sighed. "I can see karmic signatures and morphic fields when I try, and this is definitely a cat." She bent over and petted the naked man on the head and he began purring. "Good puss puss."

"I am glad to have made the acquaintance of the Unseen University faculty, the City Watch officers and my current Postmaster-General. It makes situations like the one I am in seem so much more normal," Vetinari remarked drily.

"He's probably a witch's cat," she explained. "It would explain the spell that's rearranged him the way he is now. The witches have been trying to shore up the Discworld's magic, so if he got caught in one of those pockets of malfunction I told you about while he already had a miscast enchantment on him . . . . perhaps that's how he wound up here at the same time as the Auditors. Grandfather is fond of cats, but I can't imagine him stealing one."

"Rahrk – he might like this one," Quoth croaked. "He confused the Auditors so much – awck – when they saw him, they popped like soap bubbles. Or froze or ran away!"

"So they _have_ broken enough rules to make themselves vulnerable," Susan smiled grimly and put her hand on the scabbard at her side. "That's some help anyway. Disorient them enough and that alone can do the trick sometimes. Yet they don't seem to have any fear of Grandfather coming back with his friends. I wonder why."

SQUEAK.

"You're right," Susan nodded. "We won't find that out just hiding in a stable while the world goes wobbly."

"Am I the only one besides the man-cat here who can't understand what the Rat of Death is saying?" Vetinari asked.

"Probably – and he's the Death of Rats, not the Rat of Death. He's like Grandfather and me in his own way, but he's a specialist."

"Ah. An exterminator, of sorts."

SQUEAK.

"Well, whatever he is saying, I'm inclined to agree with his previous statement. He managed to get me out of the HOUSE before the Auditors invaded it, and we've eluded them so far. But we're not doing anything useful at the moment. How do we get the presumably living man-cat something to consume and how do we get out of here?" Then Vetinari had an idea. It might not be a workable idea in this place, but it was better than trying to do nothing. Tucking away his personal lifetimer again, he got out an object that he always carried with him, at least in the real world, and since his current form was so similarly dressed and equipped as his real one, he hoped the object would have an ethereal equivalent here. It did. He pulled out from his inner robe pocket a tarnished pocket watch. The real watch had stopped working many years ago, and the engraving on its case 'From your loving Aunt Bobbi' had worn off even before then, but he'd always kept it close for sentimental reasons. Now he opened the case of this otherworldly duplicate, carefully pushed and twisted the winding knob inward and manipulated the tiny hands on the watch face until they were in the desired position.

"Oh my," he said, conspicuously out loud for all to hear, "7:00 a.m sharp and we need some fresh cream for our fine pussycat here. Wherever shall we get fresh cream and milk?"

As if on cue, a knock came upon the stable door. The bolt and bar slid aside and the door opened up of its own accord.

"Did someone just call for a delivery?" Ronnie Soak grinned.

[* * * *]


	24. Postmaster on Parade

Moist von Lipwig studied his reflection in the mirror and liked what he saw. He looked like hell. A carefully constructed hell to be sure – and one of his own devising – but he was pleased to see that his skills at applying theatrical makeup hadn't degraded one bit. Anyone viewing him now would be unable to distinguish these fake facial injuries from the real ones he'd suffered only three days ago. It had been more than a little uncomfortable to look at the iconographs of himself in the troll's grip that had appeared in all the papers yesterday, but the pictures helped him authenticate the details. Now no one but the small, select company who had gathered around the Vimes' breakfast table would know about Of the Twilight the Darkness' secret healing potion.

They'd all agreed that the potion did have to be kept a secret. While goblins might not be storing all their hope away in unggue pots willingly anymore, it didn't take a genius to imagine what sort of things could be done to goblins to force them into it again. They _would_ be forced, perhaps in great numbers, if other greedy humanoids found out what a miraculous and potent cure-all could be made from part of their essence. Vetinari himself would not be entrusted with this secret if he ever came back from his current state, and it was looking more and more like that wasn't going to happen.

Which beggared, as before, the worrisome question of who was going to succeed Vetinari as Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. There was no telling who the Guilds' favorite candidate might be, or the aristocracy's, but it mustn't be Lord Snike. The trouble was, Snike might have friends in position among the Guilds and the local lords and ladies who wouldn't care whether he was popular with the common folk or not, or if he was a tyrannical madman who tortured and killed as many of those commoners as he liked.

What Snike and his minions had done to Moist was vicious enough, but there was a potential for something much worse happening if he wasn't stopped. Moist and Adora had listened in mute horror as Dr. Lawn, Sam and Sybil Vimes and Willikens gave them a crash course in Ankh-Morpork's pre-Vetinari history. Dr. Lawn had gained far too much of his early medical expertise by putting some of the old Unmentionables' torture victims back together, those who had been fortunate or unfortunate enough to have survived. Even more appalling was Vimes' account of what he as a young man had seen during the Night Watch's raid on Captain Swing's Cable Street Irregulars headquarters. The crimes of the dark dwarves were no match for the cruelty that humanity was capable of inflicting on other humanity, slowly, when it had the right tools for the job. The nightmare wasn't as ended for all time as Vimes had believed either. Lord Winder's reign over Ankh-Morpork might not be a closed chapter in the text books after all, if Lord Snike got his way and came to power. The bulk of the new Winder Guard and the new Cable Street Unmentionables were out there in the city somewhere waiting for another chance to strike. It was up to the City Watch now to stop them, with as much help as Moist and Adora could bring in for the cause. Moist intended to bring a lot.

"Well, Mr. Pump," Moist grinned through a pseudo-split lip as he adjusted the bow tie that went with his shiniest gold suit, "am I ready for my close-up?"

Pump 19 and Sander 5 hadn't suffered any damage during the riot in Sator Square and had made their way back to the Golem Trust office afterwards, to his and Adora's enormous relief. Now Mr. Pump, still temporarily unemployed, would resume his role of watching over the Postmaster-General not as his parole officer but as a bodyguard for real.

"I Still Am Not Sure I Fully Understand The Purpose Of This, Mr. Lipvig," the golem said, looking him up and down. "It Is Commendable That You Wish To Go To Your Work At The Post Office Today, It Is Good For Society. But If You Are In Danger, Wouldn't It Be Wiser Not To Try Drawing So Much Attention To Yourself?"

"Hiding, Mr. Pump, is exactly what I am _not_ going to do." Moist donned the golden winged cap of the Postmaster to complete his outfit. "Hiding is what the men who attacked me would want, and we're not giving in to them. Hope, Mr. Pump – the greatest of all treasures - that's what I am delivering today, via special express stamps and all. I want as many people out there as possible to see that I may be beat up, but I am not beaten - and neither are they!" So Lord Snike thought he could make an example out of Moist von Lipwig, did he? More than postage was due on that one. After Moist had rallied as many postal employees as he could to resist giving in to Snike's message of fear and surrender, with a switch of hats it would be on to the Royal Bank and the Mint to do the same, and then over to the Ankh-Morpork and Sto Plains Hygienic Railway. Moist was least worried about the railway. Sir Harry King wasn't a man who gave in to bullies even if, in other senses of the word as a 'recycling entrepreneur', he did take shit from everybody.

And while Moist put his personal stamp on civil service, Adora, under the watchful eyes of Sander 5 and Of the Twilight the Darkness would be sending out dozens of encrypted clacks messages on the Grand Trunk to call in not only the City Watch's far-ranging regulars but for some other favors that Sam and Sybil Vimes were owed. Lord Snike's private army might have more members and munitions than the City Watch for right now, but if Snike thought turning the clock back four decades was going to be a simple, short march in the park, he had another think coming.

Moist and Mr. Pump didn't have to make it all the way to the Post Office to find evidence of that. They'd barely walked two blocks from Scoone Avenue when Moist found himself surrounded not by Winder Guards, but by a crowd of well-wishers who expressed relief at seeing their Postmaster out and about and in such good spirits. By the time they'd managed to hail a cab-wagon sturdy enough to accommodate a golem's bulk, Moist had a small parade of supporters following him, and the scene at the Post Office was even more dramatic. Mr. Pump intercepted Moist's golem secretary Gladys before she could give him one of her over-enthusiastic bone bruising hugs, but that terror of the fine wooden counters, Miss Iodine Maccalariat, shocked Moist to the core by bursting into tears at the sight of him and almost giving Gladys a run for the money in the chest compression department. Deputy Postmaster Tolliver Groat and Stanley Howler, Head of Stamps, had both come running to greet him and express concern over his injuries, with Groat offering Moist an entire bag of his homemade 'extra mild' curative lozenges, which Moist gratefully accepted. One never knew when one might need to non-fatally poison an enemy or come up with a chemical method for putting holes in walls. Moist didn't have to give his postal employees any of the motivational speeches he'd planned on – Snike's own bullying bombast at his rally and the attack on their fearless leader had done enough.

The atmosphere at the Royal Bank was less raucous and more restrained as it always was, but the bank clerks and employees were every bit as glad to see Moist as the postal workers had been. The most effusive welcome Moist got was from the Chairman of the Bank himself, Mr. Fusspot. The little dog bounded into Moist's arms, yipping as happily as if he'd just been given an entire bank vault full of sticky toffee puddings and trying to lick Moist's face hard enough to threaten the carefully applied makeup job. Moist rarely got to see Mr. Fusspot these days. Lord Vetinari had taken possession of the Chairman on the grounds that a certain 'dog toy' Mr. Fusspot acquired from the late Sir Joshua Lavish's private stash (of what might tactfully be called Accoutrements of Affection or less tactfully called a stash of sadomasochistic sleaze supplies) indicated a need for a less corrupting environment. In Moist's opinion that was just an excuse for a man who missed his previous deceased pet doggie, Wuffles. But Vetinari's secretary Drumknott had dropped Mr. Fusspot off at the bank shortly after Lord Vetinari's indisposition took hold lest the canine Chairman fall victim to a poisoner too. Chief Cashier Malvolio Bent and his wife were also very glad to see Moist, but happily did not insist on licking his face.

No trip to the bank would have been complete without a visit to the bank's Undercroft where Hubert Turvy and his Igor assistant kept the monetary model prediction device known as the Glooper. Hubert spent so much time in the Glooper's damp cellar that he wasn't the slightest bit aware of the goings on in Sator Square and was shocked and dismayed by Moist's appearance to the point of trembling. But Hubert and Igor had been shaken badly by some inexplicable behavior from the Glooper also.

"It'th ath if the entire currenthy thystem ith going to ceathe to exitht or at leatht grind to a halt altogether in a few weekth," the bank Igor explained.

"We've been looking for the faults in the tubes for a month, Mr. Lipwig, but we can't find any," Hubert fretted. "You would almost think that the Glooper thought the world was coming to an end. But we know that can't be right."

Moist only hoped that the Glooper wasn't detecting the possibility of the city coming to an end.

"Well, keep plugging away at it, and I'm sure you'll find the answer," Moist said in as encouraging a tone as he could muster. "My biggest concern right now is that this Lord Snike I've warned you about might try to break in here. I've already asked Mr. Bent to be on the lookout and be prepared if he or his bully boys show up." Moist looked pointedly at the Igor. "Think you could create a few surprises to stop him from getting at the vaults if he does?"

An Igor needs very little encouragement to dive right into a request like that. Hubert's assistant rubbed all three of his hands together and practically started glowing.

"I believe I might be able to come up with thomething or other, Thir," he promised.

"Good, good! Well, I'll leave and let you get on with it, shall I? Good work, gentlemen!" Moist and Mr. Pump made their exit from the Undercroft out the back way and not a moment too soon. The humidity of the cellars had almost succeeded in accomplishing what Mr. Fusspot's greeting did not, and Moist, out of view of Mr. Pump, had to hastily reglue a large false contusion onto his forehead before he could journey on to the Mint. His time there with the Men of the Sheds was brief. They weren't really interested in anything that didn't involve making money, though the Teemer and Spools printing staff were always glad to see him.

It was the middle of the afternoon before Moist and Mr. Pump arrived at Sir Harry King's compound and once again Mr. Pump had to stand between Moist and an enthusiastic well wisher. Harry was nearly as large as Mr. Pump and just as unmindful of his own strength sometimes as Gladys. But he greeted Moist as if he were a long-lost son, and growled like one of his Lipwigzer guard dogs at the livid, if fake, bruises that stood out on his young friend's face and that very realistic looking shiner.

"If I ever get my hands on them that did this, Lipwig," Harry shook his fist, "they'll wish I'd sicced Trouble on 'em!" Trouble was the largest and most intimidating of Sir Harry's security enforcers. No one troubled Trouble and got away with it, and no one was going to trouble Sir Harry King or try to make mincemeat out of one of his friends and get away with that either. Harry was insistent that Moist and Mr. Pump take along a couple of his muscle-for-hire staff as additional bodyguards and Moist didn't argue. The more hands they had to bring on deck against Lord Snike's minions the better, and Moist still wasn't sure how the City Watch was going to deal with a huge troll like Albite without Sergeant Detritus and Corporal Bluejohn around to help.

Sir Harry's offers of assistance were all the more generous as it turned out that he, Dick Simnel and the Hygienic Railway suddenly had problems of their own. A wizard from Unseen University had paid a call on them that very morning with a very unwelcome message.

"He says we've got to move half the new tracks we've already laid," Sir Harry grumbled. "Can you imagine the expense and time that'll take?"

Moist could – he already had a more than fair idea of just how difficult it had been to secure the property rights-of-way the first time around, especially since Vetinari had required him to be the government's point man on the project.

"But why?" he asked. "Don't the wizards like the railway the way it is?"

"Oh, aye, they did," Dick answered. "But it turns out there's a thing or two wrong with the way the tracks are running that interferes with some o' their magic. Said it was damaging to the env-iron-ment and that if something's not done all sorts of bad magical mishaps will start happening."

Now that _was_ bad news, especially as the towns and villages that had newly acquired railroad lines and depots weren't likely to want to give them up. But one couldn't argue about matters of magic with the wizards, not if one didn't want to wind up frog-shaped that is. Archchancellor Ridcully and his staff weren't the sort to call for such a massive undertaking on a whim. If they said that the tracks had to be re-laid, then the tracks had to be re-laid and there was nothing else for it. Sir Harry knew that too. Moist just wished the wizards could have put their two bits in a year ago before he'd had to spend weeks at a time getting Lord Vetinari the routes that he wanted.

"Truth is, Lipwig, we're going to need you to fix it all over again, the sooner the better. So if there's anything you need from us to get this business with that windbag of a Lord Winder want-to-be over with, you just say the word and you'll have it." Sir Harry told him. "You can tell the Watch Commander the same."

"I will, Harry – and thanks," Moist said before leaving with Mr. Pump and his King-assigned pair of protectors. But his mind was awhirl with the idea that anything to do with the railway was bad enough to draw the wizards' attention to it all of a sudden. If magical disasters were starting to happen because of the direction the current tracks ran in, could that have something to do with the Glooper malfunctioning as well?

"Too many problems, Mr. Pump, and all of them hitting at once," he mused. "It's a good thing we've got enough hope to go around, eh?"

[* * * *]


	25. The News in Need

Hope wasn't what Commander Vimes felt at the moment. After another frustrating day of the City Watch turning up no new leads on the whereabouts of Lord Snike, he'd received a missive from one of his least favorite citizens, Chrysoprase the Troll, with an offer to meet Vimes at the Pork Futures warehouse – tomorrow afternoon. Exactly the same time that the Guild leaders would be convening in the Rats Chamber to decide the fate of the Patricianship. Vimes was bloody unlikely to be allowed in on that meeting. The presence of an axe deeply embedded in the Rats Chamber table had made the Guild leaders a bit more nervous about his attendance at their functions . . . which had been the whole point really, but . . . . If Vimes was going to have a pally with the head of the local Breccia, he needed to have all his wits about him. In the cold of the Pork Futures warehouse, Chrysoprase certainly would, and Vimes had no Sergeant Detritus to back him up this time.

Just as distracting in a different way, Vimes arrived home only to have one of his increasingly frequent arguments with Young Sam. Sam and Sybil considered themselves lucky that their son had never gone through a terrible twos phase. But now, in the blink of an eye, Young Sam's sweet sixes and smiling sevens had given way to the edgy eights. Vimes was still as proud as punch of his boy, but he was starting to realize the downside of having a son who everyone said took after _him_. Young Sam had been indulged so far, as much as parental discretion permitted, but he was used to going on outings and play dates on an almost daily basis, not to being grounded by a civic emergency. He was getting increasingly restless at being kept indoors all day long and not allowed out to visit his little friends, like Tears of the Mushroom. Both parents had done their best to explain the situation in a way that they hoped wouldn't be too frightening, as vaguely as possible, but children just didn't understand the meaning of the word danger sometimes. When you couldn't give all the real and lurid reasons for keeping an energetic young boy from doing what he wanted, "because I said so" didn't come off as a good enough answer.

But the real frosting on the day's fairy cake had been that evening's edition of the _Ankh-Morpork Times_. Vimes could withstand the occasional frame-worthy political cartoon of him, but tonight's paper had come as a complete stab in the back. The _Ankh-Morpork Allnews_ had already soft-peddled the events surrounding the Sator Square riot and its reporters had shown unbelievable sympathy to Lord Snike's expressed goals of so-called restored glory for the city. But now the _Times'_ latest copy was jumping on the 'hurrah for a new Patrician' bandwagon as well. Vimes might not like William de Worde, but he hadn't expected the newsman to abase himself so quickly at the prospect of a change in the Palace. The _Times_ had made plenty of digs about Vimes' and the City Watch's competence as well. It burned the gut even more, because Vimes couldn't pretend that he hadn't been caught flat-footed by everything that was going on, that the _Times_ might be right about him. He'd rolled with the punches as best he could, but the hits just kept on coming.

He was pacing the floor of his downstairs den, railing on about the paper to Willikens when he and the butler heard the knocking on the front door, accompanied by the distinct thud of golem footsteps and several other pairs as well. Willikens left to answer the door and returned a minute later with a sizable assemblage – Moist and Adora von Lipwig, Mr. Pump, Sander 5, Of the Twilight the Darkness, two large human toughs that Vimes had seen working at Harry King's place once or twice before, and at least one other goblin that had been with Of the Twilight the Darkness when they interviewed Runs with the Grass Mouse and Of the Rock the Vein. Moist, still in his gold suit and cosmetic bruise job, had a rolled-up copy of the _Times_ in one hand.

"Vimes, I wonder if you've had a chance to look at the paper today?" Moist asked.

"Oh, I shouldn't get him middled on that, Sir," Willikens said, since it was already too late to keep him from getting started.

"Look at it!" Vimes snorted. "I'd like to stuff it right up Mr. William de Worde's . . . _principles_ ," he said as Sybil entered the room.

"I hope not," Moist shook his head. "Because I think he may be in some serious trouble, and we need to investigate."

"Huh?"

Moist unrolled his copy of the _Times_ and pointed to the banner section that held the paper's motto.

"Notice anything different about it?" Moist asked.

"The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret," Vimes read aloud and snorted again. "A typo - what's so odd about that? I've seen plenty of those."

"Yes, but I'll bet Tolliver Groat's toupee you haven't seen any of them in the banner section lately." Moist smacked at the offending Fret. "Oh, yes, they had their share of mistakes with the motto when the paper just started. But once they hit the big time, Mr. Spools tells me they had a fancy engraved block made with the paper's title and motto so they wouldn't have to reset it every time or worry about errors. Someone hand-set this motto today, almost as if they were trying to send a message - and that's not all. Mr. Pump and I wandered over half the town this afternoon too, with me making myself as noticeable as possible – believe me, people noticed! I attracted crowds a couple of times, but Sacharissa Cripslock and Otto Chriek weren't among 'em. Tonight's paper doesn't mention it at all. I might not be happy that Lord Snike made a public exhibit of me the other day, but doesn't that strike you as odd?"

"It does." Vimes frowned. As Commander of the City Watch and Duke of Ankh, he barely had to sneeze to be considered newsworthy. The famously flamboyant Moist von Lipwig was an even bigger media favorite - and the riot had certainly made him huge news this week.

"There's more," Moist continued. "Did you read William de Worde's editorial column?"

"I sure did," Vimes grumbled. "He practically called for me to hand in my badge!"

"Yes, but he did so in a way that was _amusing_. He even made a joke about you, Vimes. William de Worde doesn't make jokes – and he never entertains his readers when he could be educating them instead. I follow his column every chance I get, but not because I enjoy his style. The man writes like a knowledgeable young fart trying to sound like a knowledgeable old fart!"

"Mr. Lipwig, such language!" Sybil scolded.

"My point exactly," Moist said, and swatted the newspaper with his hand again. "Language! I'm telling you, William de Worde didn't write this rubbish. I don't think Sacharissa wrote the section that has her name on it either. So if they're not the ones turning the _Times_ into a pro-Snike mouthpiece, who is?"

"Damn," Vimes muttered. Put that way, it made all too much sense. Hadn't he reminisced with Captain Carrot only two days ago about the previous incident when a pair of hired gangsters had taken the newspaper's staff hostage? He ordered Willikens to fetch him his armor and weapons. "I need to get down there with the Watch and check it out."

"You mean _we_ need to get down there," Adora Belle interjected. Vimes noticed that she was carrying a very large handbag. It didn't take a bolt quiver sticking out of it for him to guess at the contents. "This is our fight too, and the _Times_ staff has been very good to us these past few years."

"And if anyone's doing to them what Snike's crew did to me . . . ." Moist's normally cheerful voice was thick with anger and dread. He didn't have to say more.

No – Vimes wasn't about to let de Worde suffer the same fate, and the Lipwigs weren't going to either. They were both good people in a fight, and the golems and Sir Harry King's boys were undeniable muscle, but . . . .

"Damn it, I'm supposed to be protecting you two!"

"We Will Assist You With That, Commander," Mr. Pump said, nodding along with fellow golem Sander 5. "But I Have Worked With Mr. Lipvig Before, And I Believe You Would Find It Easier To Fight Lord Snike's Army By Yourself Than To Get Him To Listen To Reason. Especially When He Has Made Up His Mind."

"Mr. Pump," Moist grinned, "I'd resent that remark if it weren't absolutely true. So what are we standing around debating for? We have pressing matters to attend to!"

Half an hour later, goblins and a wolf crept through the evening shadows of Gleam Street. The _Ankh-Morpork Times_ never went to bed - lights shone in its windows at any hour of day or night, and from outside the building there was no indication that anything was amiss. If the new Winder Guards or Unmentionables were here, it wasn't in large numbers. Half a block away from Gleam Street, Commander Vimes, several constables, the Lipwigs and their assorted allies waited for the goblins and Captain Angua to report back.

"This had better not be a wild goose chase," Vimes whispered to Moist.

"Believe me, Vimes, I'd rather it was," Moist whispered back. "I've known Sacharissa since I first reopened the Post Office, and she doesn't just miss out on the opportunity for a story – ever. Neither does Otto. Something fishy is going on here and I'm willing to bet it rhymes with hike."

"I think you'd win that bet," Angua's voice murmured from the shadows behind them, accompanied by the sound of her reattaching her armored breastplate. "I couldn't see much in any of the windows from down where I was keeping my nose on the job, Commander, but at least one of the humans who accompanied Mr. Sorville the other day is in that building."

So – not a wild goose chase then. Lipwig had been right, Vimes thought, in more ways than one. A wild goose chase would have been preferable.

"But not our troll friend Mr. Albite?"

"I didn't smell him," Angua said. "There's a troll in there, but from the scents I'm picking up and their ages, he's a regular. Probably de Worde's hired muscle man Rocky. Plenty of dwarves in there too – Gunilla Goodmountain and his crew, but they're sweating a lot – nervous, worry sweat. There are new human scents on the ground by the front and back entrances, ones that don't match the older people smells. I'd say the _Times_ has quite a few unwelcome visitors at the moment."

"Any idea how many?" Vimes asked.

"Hard to be exact." Angua wrinkled her nose. "The entire place stinks of ink and oil and chemicals everywhere and it's all I can do to get that much information. I can't tell if de Worde or Miss Cripslock might be in the building or not. But there's one other scent I'm picking up, and I don't think it's a good sign." She paused and covered her nose with a hand as if trying to keep the smell from getting back into it. "When a vampire gets . . . cremated . . . it leaves a real stench behind, at least for us werewolves. Otto Chriek does that to himself so often, I've got his ash stink memorized, only this time it's everywhere. All over the building. Like it was coated in thousands of little bits of Otto."

She didn't have time to say more before the goblin advance crew began dropping in to alert the group to what they had discovered on their more upper window and rooftop-oriented search. The goblins had needed all of their stealth to avoid being spotted by at least three humans armed with Burleigh and Stronginthearm specials. One of these was in what sounded like William de Worde's office with his crossbow trained on a man who matched de Worde's description. The other two armed humans had the mostly dwarvish staff of the _Times_ and their huge printing press machine in their aim. From above there was no sign of Sacharissa Cripslock or any other woman or troll either. But a more complete picture emerged as another goblin, Of the Rain the Stream, returned. Of the Rain the Stream had found an entrance to the building's basement from the seemingly smallest of cracks and with it had located the missing security troll, a woman who could only be Sacharissa, and two of the dwarves who worked for de Worde. The troll appeared to be in a drugged stupor, the goblin told them, and another man with a crossbow was watching Sacharissa and the dwarves closely.

"Just four of them, armed with crossbows," Vimes mused. "That's not a lot to take over on a staff of nearly twenty, most of them dwarves, one troll and another a vampire. Enough to hold the staff there once they'd got the upper hand, though." He looked over to Angua. "Could there have been more 'visitors' earlier? Maybe some who have left since?"

Angua shrugged.

"It's a definite possibility. I'd say there are more than four new scents at the back entrance, but the chemicals are a mess to sniff around and make sure. And if the ash scent is . . . you know . . . . I'd really rather not inhale any more of him than necessary."

 _Yuck_ , Vimes thought. He'd never been eager to hire or work with vampires on the Watch himself, but that really put a perspective on why werewolves weren't fond of working with them either. Sally von Humpeding had proved an effective Watch officer, though, and Otto Chriek might not be Vimes' favorite person, but he was a black ribboner who didn't deserve to be forced to take a powder in this fashion.

"Four men, armed with crossbows . . . plenty of hostages in harm's way . . . ." Vimes said. "Our best bet is if we can lure at least one of the hostage takers out first and give him a case of Dolly Sisters Dropsy. Then try to make it contagious."

All of the Watch officers and both of Harry King's hired strongmen nodded, but Moist, Adora, the golems and goblins didn't comprehend.

"Er . . . ?" Moist asked.

"It's like this," one of the toughs explained. "Dropsy . . . you get hit and you drop, see?"

"We create a disturbance, enough to get one of them to come check it out," Vimes added. "When his buddies get curious as to why he doesn't come back and they go to check on him . . ." Vimes shook his head and made a tsking sound, "very transmissible disease, Dolly Sisters Dropsy. It's so obvious it shouldn't work, but you wouldn't believe how often it does." He paused. "I figure we might get at least two of them that way, all three on the main floor if we're lucky. The one in the cellar's a harder bugger to get to. It's a question of whether he's smart enough to do the sensible thing and give himself up when he's surrounded, or if he's stupid enough to shoot an officer or one of the hostages."

 _And which hostage_ , Vimes thought, but he didn't say it aloud. The security troll could withstand a crossbow bolt or two, and the dwarves probably had some kind of armor or padding under their clothing – with dwarves that was practically their natural born state. Sacharissa Cripslock wouldn't fare so well though.

As if reading his thoughts, the goblins began chattering among themselves as quietly as possible – more like filbert squeaks than walnut grindings.

"You have a better plan?" Vimes frowned. "Whatever we're doing, we're going to have to do it soon. I'm not waiting for our four bravos to get reinforcements."

Of the Rain the Stream nodded agreement.

"Plan works well enough for upstairs. Let goblins take care of man in cellar – goblins and then maybe clay men after. We sneak in while you get others out your way. We make sure he doesn't aim well."

"Or that he hits something he can't penetrate," Vimes grinned. He'd seen what goblins could accomplish when they got through the chinks in a dwarf raider's armor during the train attack. "That'd work. Now all we need is the distraction . . . ."

Five minutes later, the denizens of the _Times_ ' Gleam Street headquarters heard the first strains of a chorus of Hogswatch carolers striking up 'When Pork Pies Come A-Steamin' In.' The time of evening was right for the music, just after dark, though the time of year was all wrong, and the carolers stood close by but just out of view from any of the angles of the building. At first, nothing happened in response. But as the singing got louder and closer, one of the men with crossbows lowered his weapon and went to investigate the sounds. A few minutes later as the tune changed to 'Squeaker, the Shiny Snouted Swinelet,' right on schedule one of the other crossbowmen followed.

Before the third crossbowman on the main floor could get too inquisitive about the off-season singing or his partners' sudden, prolonged absence, a noisy commotion from the cellar signaled to him, and to anyone else listening, that the jig was up. On cue, Sander 5 smashed a hole in the street paving closest to the _Times_ ' cellar, jumped down into the cavity he'd created and made a golem-line for the cellar. Vimes, three other officers, one of the toughs and – over several earlier objections - the crossbow-wielding Adora Belle rushed the building. No armed intruders now covered the startled crew in the main press room, which meant that the remaining crossbowmen were the one in the cellar and the one in William de Worde's Editor's room. Sword drawn and shield in place, Vimes raced to the door of de Worde's office – and into the gaze of an Unmentionable, whose crossbow was still trained on de Worde.

 _Crap!_

Well, they'd planned for this possibility too, hadn't they? Vimes had to hope the plan was good enough . . . .

"Stay back or I'll kill him," the Cable Street Irregular remake snarled.

Vimes backed up and moved slightly to the side, but allowed an unnerving grin to come over his features.

"Really? Now don't you think your boss would be more than a little upset about that?" Vimes' voice oozed confidence as well as concern. "Because I'm pretty sure Lord Snike is counting on Mr. de Worde's father, Lord de Worde, for some support among the other Lords of the Realm tomorrow. I don't think he'll get it if you put a bolt through Lord de Worde's only remaining son. In fact, I'm guessing that would cause quite a few problems for Lord Snike, don't you? He doesn't like people who cause him problems, does he?"

Vimes might not be the one with the crossbow, but he knew he'd scored a hit as he saw a shadow of doubt in his opponent's eyes.

 _That's it, buddy! Keep wondering and keep those eyes on me while you're at it! Don't pay attention to de Worde and don't turn around and look out the window!_

"In fact," Vimes continued, still smiling in an eerie fashion, "I know quite a few things the old Unmentionables used to do to people who annoyed Lord Winder. If you annoy Lord Snike, I'm sure your fellow new recruits could use a bit of practice – and someone to practice on . . . ."

The new Unmentionable began moving exactly as Vimes hoped, focusing all of his attention away from his hostage and aiming his crossbow toward Vimes instead.

"I doubt Lord Snike would mind if I killed y-" he started to say.

Vimes had just enough time to duck down before the large, tawny wolf form of Captain Angua came crashing through the window to strike the crossbowman directly in the back, sending the weapon flying as the bolt embedded itself in a wall. Sword still in hand, Vimes scrambled to his feet, dodging the shards of broken glass.

"I doubt he would either," Vimes said to the Irregular, "but the werewolf standing on top of you might feel a bit differently."

Angua growled as loud as she could and bared her fangs less than an inch from the Unmentionable's scalp just to make sure the point got across.

"You all right, de Worde?" Vimes got out the pair of handcuffs he carried at his belt and kicked the fallen crossbow aside.

The editor of the _Ankh-Morpork Times_ , a shade paler than Angua's fur, gulped, nodded and stiffly stood up from his desk. He stared down at the floor of his office.

"Sacharissa . . . ." de Worde choked out and stared back up at Vimes. "Forget about me, Commander! You've got to-"

"We're already on it," Vimes said, reaching under Angua to cuff the prisoner and check him for any more weapons. "This one's two buddy boys are in custody already, and your cellar just got a new entrance. You can send the bill to the Palace if you want, but I doubt anyone's listening."

William de Worde wasn't either. He circled around his desk as far from the werewolf and its prisoner as possible and dashed out the door of the office on his way to the cellar stairs.

Sacharissa Cripslock had been praying for rescue, but now she wondered just which one of the gods had listened. First, through a crack in the basement she, Rhysa, Boddony and their captor had heard the sound of Hogswatch carols being sung at least three months early. Then, from a corner and a patch of shadows, a goblin had slipped into the cellar, followed by another goblin, and another, and another. The singing from outside had been strange enough to make the hands holding the crossbow twitch. As a fifth goblin joined the first four, Rhysa had caught sight of them in the shadows too and accidentally gave away their presence as they tried to sneak into position. But when the golem burst through the walls and it and the goblins went on the attack at the same time as crashing noises sounded from upstairs, all Sacharissa could do was take cover and hope the listening god just had a strange sense of humor.

Then the fight was over as suddenly as it began, with only one more unexpected twist. As the golem and goblins subdued their opponent, another woman armed with a crossbow came rushing down the stairs to make sure the rescue was complete. Sacharissa recognized her at once and hoped the hostage-taker did too.

"Is everyone here all right?" Adora Belle called out as she leveled her weapon at the man in the golem's grasp.

"No," Sacharissa answered, crouching next to the supine troll. "Rocky's in a bad way. They made him swallow something and we've got to get him to the hospital." She shot an accusatory look at her former captor. "It might be too late to save Otto, Witworth, but you're not getting Rocky. Tell us what you gave him!"

The former crossbow holder's response was a sneer until he did, indeed, appear to recognize just who was holding a crossbow on him. Adora's eyes narrowed.

"Witworth," she murmured to Sacharissa. "Did you say his name was Witworth?"

[-]

"I love holiday music, don't you, Corporal?" Moist said to the City Watch officer as he and Mr. Pump helped stand guard over the two prisoners who had contracted Dolly Sisters Dropsy. "It's so . . . disarming."

The corporal shrugged and kept his truncheon handy as one of the men in custody started to stir, looked up at the Watch officers and Mr. Pump's glowing red eyes and decided to collapse again. Two of the other Watch members kept their attention on the _Times_ building. They'd all heard the sounds of Sander 5 smashing through the pavement and Captain Angua breaking through a window. After that there had been very little noise for several minutes. But as dwarf workers came streaming out of the building, followed by two Watch officers, Commander Vimes, with a handcuffed prisoner in front and a large wolf behind, a bloodcurdling scream issued from the cellar. Commander Vimes turned around to look without releasing his grip on the man he had in custody, and the two Watch officers near him dived back into the building. A moment later, William de Worde and Sacharissa Cripslock came out along with two more dwarves, several goblins and Sander 5 carrying an unconscious troll. A moment after that, the two Watch officers dragged up from the cellar the cringing and suddenly cooperative fourth crossbowman, followed by Adora Belle. She had a look of grim satisfaction on her face and blood on one of her spiked heels.

"It turns out they really _can_ push all the way through to the floor," she said to Moist and Vimes as the scattered group reassembled. The prisoner held by the two Watch officers, while not exactly standing had struggled to get as far away from Adora as possible, and now turned even paler and more terrified as he caught a glimpse of Moist.

"Why, Mr. Witworth, fancy meeting you here," Moist said. "I see you've met my wife too."

"And he's going to tell Commander Vimes and Dr. Lawn all about the overdose of crystal slam he forced Mr. Rocky to take, and everything else he's done, or he's going to find out what other parts of his anatomy I can put holes in," Adora smiled at the prisoner. "Not that I wouldn't like to do that anyway."

The man called Witworth seemed all agreement as he was taken back to Pseudopolis Yard to get his foot repaired by Igor and be put in a nice, safe holding cell. Rocky, the _Times_ security troll and sportswriter, was off to the hospital in a carriage wagon instead, along with a couple of dwarf friends who promised to keep a close watch on him. William and Sacharissa, tired and pale but relieved at being rescued, had their own grim tale to tell. A much larger group of Unmentionables had invaded and taken over the _Times_ building the previous day, catching the entire staff by surprise. With his employers and friends all held hostage, Rocky had been forced to take a near fatal amount of crystal slam to make sure he couldn't be a threat to the Unmentionables. But Otto Chriek had suffered an even worse fate.

"Are you sure he's dead?" Vimes said. "It's hard to kill a vampire, at least permanently."

"I wish that were true in this case," William de Worde sighed. "It seems impossible he could come back from this . . . ."

Otto Chriek had been turned into ash by successive salamander flashes aimed straight at him by the first wave of intruders. The vampire wore an emergency glass vial of blood around his neck for whenever he did this to himself accidentally, and it had revived him after the first flash. But he hadn't been given any chance to grab a replacement vial before a second and third flash reduced him to cinders. To the _Times_ staff's horror, the Unmentionables then used brooms and other implements to scatter Otto's ashes to all corners of the building.

"Now there isn't enough left of him to revive . . . ." the editor whispered. He and Sacharissa were both fighting back tears and losing.

"We don't know that yet," Moist said. "His ashes are still in the building, mostly. They just have to be gathered back together and I think I know someone who can do it. If you don't mind a bit of damage to your place, that is."

"I'd give the whole building over if that's what it took to get Otto back," de Worde told him. "I owe him . . . a lot."

"I don't think she'll have to destroy the entire building. But my secretary Gladys started out as a cleaning . . . uh, woman . . . at the Post Office. She's a golem, which means she doesn't just clean floors, she can clean _under_ 'em - and under anything else that gets in her way. If anyone can put Otto back in one pile, it's her. There's still hope."

"Do you really think so?" Sacharissa sniffled. It was the first time Moist could ever recall her asking him a question without a notebook and pencil in her hands.

"We'll be grateful for anything at this point," de Worde said, rubbing tired eyes. "The whole situation has been a nightmare I keep hoping I'll wake up from. You too, I'd bet. Truth is, Mr. Lipwig, we're amazed you're here at all. That man, Witworth, told us you were finished."

"Did he now?" Moist grinned. "Well as you can see, I'm not. Neither is the _Times_ , I hope, even if you do have to miss getting out tomorrow's edition for a good golem housecleaning."

"For more than that," Vimes added. "We've nabbed the four here now, but their Unmentionable colleagues could come back. I don't have any officers to spare, but I'm going to have to scrape up a few from somewhere somehow to guard this place, whether Mr. de Worde wants me to or not." The Watch Commander grimaced. "Can't have anyone interfering with the freedom of the press, now can we?"

William de Worde didn't appear ready to argue – he looked more ready to drop. But he managed a slight smile at Vimes' mention of freedom of the press and had a jaw-lowering comment of his own for the Watch Commander.

"Thanks," he said. "Thank you for getting us out of that mess. I mean it, Commander." The editor looked down and into the face of the wolf at Vimes' side. "And I'm sorry about the oil of scallatine. Really."

The wolf winked up at him by way of an answer and gave a swish of the tail. de Worde nodded, and arm in arm with Sacharissa made his way to a police carriage to be taken to a safe location.

"Hell," Vimes swore as he watched them go. "Does this mean I have to be _nice_ to him from now on?"

Beside him, the wolf began making a kind of barkish whuffling noise.

"Don't think I don't know when I'm being laughed at, _Captain_." Vimes barked.

The wolf quieted down immediately and sat at attention, though Vimes could swear Angua's canine mouth was still grinning.

"Not a bad take for one night," Vimes said as the Watch finished up operations, though he had no idea where they were going to find room for the number of witnesses the Watch had to question. He'd leave that problem for Captain Carrot while he made hasty arrangements to find coverage for the _Times_ building and at the very least, Rocky's hospital room. With any luck, he'd be able to scrape up the staff needed and still get enough sleep to be alert for his meeting with Chrysoprase tomorrow. But however many 'Unmentionables' the Watch snagged tonight or tomorrow if any tried to come back to the _Times_ , the City Watch officers were still outmanned and up to this point a step behind the enemy.

 _Not good enough._

Because who knew where Lord Snike and his minions might strike next?

Vimes grimaced again as he fished a piece of broken window glass he hadn't noticed before out of the collar of his Watch armor and tossed it onto the sidewalk. He swore as he noticed the shard had just a trace of blood on it.

"Last thing I need is to be competing with Mr. Dibbler in the Cut-Me-Own-Throat category," he grumbled, then noticed that Lipwig was looking at the side of his neck curiously. "I didn't actually cut it badly, did I?"

"Nope," Moist said. "You're nicked, chum."

[* * * *]


	26. Lectures and Reverses

Mr. Grinder just couldn't quit smoking, but that was a typical problem for people who tried to sneak onto the Vimes estate via the swamp dragon pens. Mr. Selfway, who knew better, didn't have that dilemma. He was more interested in observation than action, which was why he remained alive and intact, unlike several of his colleagues who'd already tested the defenses at Scoone Avenue Number One. Staying alive made him useful, and right now he felt particularly useful because in keeping his distance he noticed something that the others had not. Something that most of the residents of Scoone Avenue Number One had failed to observe as well. While there weren't many safe routes in and out of the Vimes mansion, one had been discovered not by the Unmentionables, but by the young Watch whelp, the little boy who resided there. Twice, as Mr. Selfway watched the mansion in the afternoon from a distance, the Vimes youngster had snuck out an upper story window, made his way across tenuous handholds to a tree and from there shimmied down to the ground and across the lawn and out. The boy would be gone an hour, two at most, then sneak back in by reversing the procedure.

It was a clever operation. No watch-dragons belched in the incidents, at least not at a familiar scent. The tree limb and the handholds would never have supported a full grown man's or dwarf's weight either, but they supported a child. A very clever, very determined, very foolish child . . . .

[* * * *]

"So you didn't stay with the others?" Susan asked.

Ronnie Soak shook his head and there was a sharpish edge to his smile as his passengers got on board the only dairy delivery wagon on the starry plain.

"Same old story," the fifth Horseman said. "Style. Difference of opinion." He refused to elaborate further. He also didn't seem surprised by the Auditor attack on Death's HOUSE in the horsemen's absence. "The little red buggers mean well, but there aren't enough of them to stop the little grey buggers."

Greebo needed a little coaxing to climb to climb onto the wagon, but a saucer of cream provided the effective catalyst. Ronnie didn't ask for any explanation as to why the 'fine pussycat' looked an awful lot like a naked buccaneer who wanted to lap his cream while crouched on hands and knees. In the confines of a conveyance never meant for multiple riders, that left Vetinari uncomfortably wedged between Ronnie and Susan, while 'After' Edwards seemed almost to merge with the body of the carriage.

"Frightfully chilly in this coach," the ghost complained.

"That's because of my sword," Ronnie said. "You're practically sitting on it."

The ghost gave a little cry of alarm and moved over practically into Vetinari's lap.

"Sorry, old chap – hope you don't mind?"

Vetinari declined to make a comment and only shifted as much as he could to avoid risking damage to the hourglass in his pocket. 'After' Edwards had no weight or mass really, but physical contact with the ghost caused an unpleasant sensation of a kind anyway. Propriety and common sense kept Vetinari from intruding on Susan Sto Helit's space, however, so a ghost half in the lap, or rather halfway through it was the only alternative. If manners did not keep him as far as possible from Miss Susan, the piercing gaze of Death's granddaughter might have. She was staring at him as if in expectation of something. Vetinari was used to staring down other people rather than having the same technique used on him. It was damned annoying, and damned effective.

"Is something bothering you?" he asked her finally. "Other than the army of little grey robes full of nothing trying to end all life as we know it?"

"Yes," she said. "When are you going to start acting like the tyrant I've heard so much about? I'm waiting."

"Ah. So sorry to disappoint. But you see, I don't happen to _be_ a tyrant at the moment. You are going to have to make do with Havelock Vetinari, not the Patrician, and I have it on the best possible authority that Havelock Vetinari prefers to avoid tyrannical behavior when it isn't necessary to use. I can't speak for what stories you've heard, but surely it's occurred to you that some of them might be false? Or exaggerated for a purpose?"

"It has," she frowned. "Don't expect me to award you a medal for that."

"Quite all right, I awarded myself one already anyway." He started to grin, and then as the realization of what he'd just said sank in, all trace of the fledgling grin vanished. "I . . . _did_ . . . give myself . . . a medal . . . didn't I?" That is, Havelock Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, had awarded Stoker Blake, which was to say himself, a medal. But surely Stoker Blake had earned one?

"How nice," Miss Susan sighed as she switched into her schoolteacher voice. "And did you bring enough cupcakes for the whole class while you were at it?"

Strange how that voice could be even more terrible than the VOICE in its own way. Instead of making one afraid or awed, it made the listener feel young and small and awkward instead, and vaguely guilty. Sometimes that was so much worse, as if he was six years old again and caught with his hand in the biscuit tin by his Aunt Bobbi.

"What if I said I brought _almost_ enough cupcakes for the entire class?"

Miss Susan had a sterner glare for him than his Aunt would have.

"But that's worse than not bringing any cupcakes at all!"

"It is?"

"Of course it is!" She snorted. "What, would you try to make it some popularity contest? What happens to the student who doesn't get a cupcake? What are his or her little friends going to think about the student then? That he or she isn't good enough to play with them anymore?"

Vetinari was very, very quiet for some time as the dairy wagon rolled on along the empty, starry plain.

"Do you know," he said at last, "I honestly don't think I even considered it from that perspective before now?"

"I guess it's a good thing you're not a schoolteacher then," Susan Sto Helit shrugged.

"You could be right about that . . . ." Vetinari shifted in his seat again, and this time heedless of 'After' Edwards' presence drew the blue-and-black sand-filled frozen lifetimer from his robe. Awarding himself medals? Failing to consider every possible angle? When had that sort of behavior started happening? He stared at the grains of blue sand, at the gleaming cerulean facets intertwining with the black, and imagined he saw them running backward, upward . . . . felt himself floating backward, upward . . . . such an odd, lightheaded feeling . . . . pleasant but disorienting . . . . as he stared into the disbelieving face of the plump and dowdy young woman standing in front of his desk . . . .

"I am drunk, Miss Sugarbean. Drunk as a skunk . . . ."

At least, that's what he remembered saying, though he now heard it as, "knuks a sa knurD .naebraguS ssiM, knurd ma I"

He was, too. Drunk as a skunk – a state he hadn't allowed himself to get in for such a very long time. Time was running backwards for him, or at least for the people he was with. As he watched and listened, Glenda Sugarbean spoke backwards and reversed her way out of the Oblong Office. Drumknott walked backwards to escort her reverse entry. The crossword puzzle on his desk emptied of answers under his pen one row at a time.

Such an odd sensation . . . .

And then he got up from his chair and walked backwards out of the Oblong Office as the sun de-rose in the sky. He traveled in reverse through the hallways of the Palace, back and heels first, but without striking anything. He didn't sleep – hadn't felt like sleeping. He wandered backwards enjoying the alcoholic buzz that rushed through his blood. In the early morning hours, no petitioners disturbed him, and the guards and dark clerks kept out of his way. Why shouldn't he feel exultant? He'd gotten everything he wanted with the foot-the-ball people. He'd shown them he knew how to play games all right, sober or not.

As he walked backwards toward a patch of shadow, he waved to his new friend in the little grey robe, and heard his new friend speak backwards too:

 _.hcuot ni eb ll'eW – iraniteV, eybdooG_

".neht eybdooG" Did he really say that?

 _.llew eraF .gniog eb tsum eW won rof tuB .dedeen er'eW erehw ecnatsissa reffo ot yppaH .slegna ruoy sa sU fo kniht tsuJ_

"?uoy llac ot I ma eman tahw yB .larulp eht ni flesruoy fo kaeps uoy ecnis sdneirF ro ,dneirF ,eman ruoy em dlot ton evah uoy tey dnA"

 _.erom gnihtoN .sU ot nepo dnim ruoy peek ot uoy rof – ksa eW lla s'taht_

".em dnif ot erehw wonk dluohs uoy ,em rof snoitseggus evah uoy fI .meht edulcxe ot esiw ti redisnoc t'nod I .saedi wen ot dednim-nepo eb ot deirt syawla evah I"

 _?ni sU tel ll'uoy fI ?uoy yb draeh sevlesruO ekam oT ?ti si ,ksa ot hcum oot ton s'tahT .erew ti sa redisnoc ot uoy rof saedi wen wef A .emit ot emit morf ,neht snoitseggus wen wef a reffo sU teL_

".gnola ssecorp eht pleh ot nac I tahw od I .enoyreve rof ysae t'nsi tahT .meht htiw egnahc ot nrael tsum eW .gnignahc era semiT"

 _Elbarimda si tahT .ksat tluciffid a flesruoy tes evah uoY_

".sraey ynam ni desu ton evah I noisausrep fo snaem a ot troser ot dah I tuB .em no llot rieht nekat evah seitivitca s'gnineve ehT .egatnavdasid a hcus ta dnuof modles ma I"

 _.erusaelp ruO si ti taht yaS .sU rof melborp on si tI .ecnatsissa ruO reffo ot dalg era eW_

".detoof-erus naht ssel ma I fi neve ,emag llab wen a sah kroproM-hknA fo ytic eht taht yas ylefas nac I .did yehT"

 _?llew tnew snoitaitogen ruoY_

".worromot gnihca eb lliw that sdaeh eht gnoma sdneirfnu fo erahs ym edam evah lliw I .esoht nwod gninrut eb dluohs I esoppus t'nod I"

 _.yllA laitnetop A .dneirf a sa sU fo knihT_

".tem ev'ew eveileb t'nod I ?eb uoy dluow ohw dnA" Not that he could know as he saw no face.

 _.emoclew era uoY_

".gel emag a evah I raef I .seigolopa ym ,hA"

Still feeling fuzzy headed, he watched as a grey-robed figure reverse lifted him to his feet. From a strange, separate angle as if seen from above, he watched the figure withdraw the shadowy appendage it had used to trip him before he saw himself untrip, and unweave up the hall.

Then time accelerated backwards still more and he was standing among a less and less thinning crowd of people as documents were unsigned, hands unshook, and drinks undrank. It was all dizzying to watch, as if the liquors were being vomited back into glasses and sucked back up into pitchers and bottles, in pristine condition. So much alcohol. He remembered thinking at that time how glad he was not to have a problem with that sort of thing, the way Commander Vimes once did . . . .

The glistening liquids blurred before his eyes and became a glistening, unmoving silicon facet. Time stood still for a moment. Or was it more than a moment?

He was back in the cold, white dairy wagon, staring at an hourglass as he sat wedged between a serious young woman and a ghost.

"Are you all right?" 'After' Edwards asked. "You look like you've seen a me."

Susan placed a hand on Vetinari's shoulder. It didn't feel hard and disorienting and painful, the way Death's contact had. It just felt human, but strange for all that, like 'After' Edward's touch – an unfamiliar experience. How often did Vetinari allow anyone to touch him anymore?

"Did you remember something again?" She said, but it wasn't really a question. She knew the answer already by the look on his face.

"I was drunk . . . ."

As drunk as a skunk . . . .

Had he made it that easy for them?

Yet, he hadn't agreed to be their puppet . . . not exactly . . . .

But he _had_ said he would keep his mind open and that had been enough. He'd thought himself still in command of all his faculties that night, but he hadn't even realized the Auditor was responsible for tripping him before helping him up. He hadn't remembered the incident at all, that's how drunk he had been. One mistake – _his_ mistake – that was all it had taken. How many more mistakes had he made since then?

Vetinari put the hourglass away. He wasn't sure he wanted it to show him anything ever again.

"Your grandfather makes a very strange choice in allies, Miss Susan," he said.

"You aren't the strangest one, if that's any consolation," she told him. "I've worked with the Tooth Fairy, the oh, god of hangovers and the son of Time."

"It sounds like you've led an interesting life."

"You have no idea," she exhaled hard and her hair rearranged itself slightly as she did so. "You don't know how much I wish I could be normal!"

"Do you? Whatever for?"

"What for?" Susan waved one of her arms in a sweeping gesture that took in the whole of the starry plain. "So I didn't have to deal with this sort of thing! So I didn't have to worry about Auditors of Reality! Or have rodent skeletons with scythes and talking crows following me around to give me marching orders!"

SQUEAK. The Death of Rats objected.

"To give me Grandfather's marching orders – you know what I mean!"

"Ah, yes," Vetinari said. "I think I do know what you mean. To live in blissful, powerless ignorance with the common herd, never bothering or being able to act when a larger, more powerful force sweeps you and your neighbors away like so much dust. Is that it?"

"No, of course not!" she yelled.

"Well then, what do you mean by normal?" Vetinari asked. "Because what you might mean by normal, I would probably define as helpless. I've known a lot of 'normal' people in my life, but even with what I've just learned about myself, I'd rather not be one of them. What makes you think you'd be content with it?"

Susan began to open her mouth, then shut it again.

"Normal is over-rated," Ronnie Soak chuckled. "Can't stand it myself. Isn't that what the Auditors would like, though? To have everything be nice and normal as they see it? Obedient to the Rules?"

"Don't compare me to those monsters!" Susan exclaimed.

 _We are not all monsters._

 _I hope._

Ronnie drew his steed and the dairy wagon to a halt as they pulled up alongside a faded crimson robe full of . . . something. There had to be some substance to an Auditor for this one to look so tattered and torn. No face was visible underneath the cowl and yet something within conveyed an emotion of sadness.

"You don't look like the bearer of good news," Vetinari stated.

 _I am not._

 _I have come to find the last Horseman of the Apocalypse._

The tattered crimson cowl tilted up toward Ronnie Soak.

 _You must help Us, One Who Burns With The Cold Of Creation, or all is lost!_

"The last Horseman of the Apocalypse? What's happened to the others?" Susan demanded.

 _They have been placed under a spell by the Others of Our kind._

 _We cannot break it. We have tried._

 _They are as if statues, but the One Who Burns With The Cold Of Creation is not_

 _._

 _The one called Albert Malich told us to find You._

 _He said that the spell did not affect You because You are not in the Books._

"Heh," Ronnie Soak grinned a manic grin. "Who'd have thought getting left out of them could be a good thing?" He turned to his passengers. "Everybody out, folks! Something's about to happen and you don't want to be on board when it does!"

He didn't need to say it twice – the wagon began to get colder as soon as the words left his mouth. Vetinari, Susan, the Death of Rats and a large, scarred tomcat scrambled off as Quoth flew away and 'After' Edwards floated off to the side. Ronnie galloped the wagon a distance from his passengers, stood up on what had been his seat and reached behind his back to draw an object from its place of concealment. The cold became biting as the dairy wagon vanished and a battle chariot with a great black stallion glowing in red took its place. Ronnie Soak blurred, transformed and became Kaos once more, with the wings of a butterfly on a helm concealing his features, and a sword with flames of pure, blue cold licking along its blade.

"When all this is over," Vetinari whispered to Susan, "if the entire world hasn't been destroyed and I'm not still dead, remind me to tip the milkman a bit more generously."

Susan nodded, and they stood aside while the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse rode out with the damaged crimson Auditor leading the way. Waves of cold washed along behind in their wake, leaving the small group shivering in the emptiness of the dark, starry plain.

"We appear to have lost our ride," 'After' Edwards sighed.

"Rawk!" Quoth cawed. "Well don't expect me to carry all of you!"

Susan and Vetinari were studying the large, grey tomcat that had clambered off the dairy wagon with them.

"Is that . . . ?" Vetinari asked.

"The meowing man? Yes." Susan looked Greebo up and down, taking in the mass of scars and odd tufts of fur, the stubby ears and the useless, milky eye that had taken the place of a rather handsome, if disturbingly naked, disturbingly non-human coachman/buccaneer. In his natural state, Greebo looked less like a cat and more like a giant fist with fur. "I think I preferred him the other way around."

SQUEAK.

"And I wasn't asking for _your_ opinion!"

All around them the group saw only emptiness – no more HOUSE, at the moment no more Auditors, either crimson or grey, and no clear direction to go in.

"So what is our next move from here?" Vetinari mused aloud. "We cannot count on Death at the moment, and it sounds rather as if he and his fellows are the ones in need of our help."

SQUEAK, the Death of Rats suggested.

"Yes, we know," Susan scowled at it. "You want to be a Horseman of the Apocalypse too, but it doesn't work that way! So why go on about horses now?"

SQUEAK-EAK-EAK!

"What?" Her facial expression changed to a much less severe one, and almost became a smile. "That's right. That just might work."

"What might work?" Vetinari asked with a bit of testiness.

"I have the power to summon Binky, just like Grandfather does. If I can summon him here . . . ."

"The white stallion? But your grandfather was riding on him as one of the Horsemen. Won't he be under the same spell that has trapped all the others?"

"Not if the spell or spell book the Auditors are using is old enough. It obviously doesn't include Ronnie, but it might not include Binky either. He isn't grandfather's first horse – or even the second. The first two didn't work out, but these Auditors might not realize that – they might be using the wrong spell."

Susan stood herself a bit apart from the rest of them, drew the Sword of Death that she'd kept by her side, and like Ronnie Soak before her, she transformed, though not so radically. Her hair changed its shape and style once more as if by its own accord. For a single moment, the trace of her skull beneath the skin could be seen, and though she remained a young woman, there was an aura of oldness – no, _ancient_ ness – about her. When she spoke again, she was using the VOICE. "WELL, HERE GOES . . . SOMETHING."

Susan stretched out her arms and the Sword before her. At first, nothing seemed to happen, beyond a sensation that some form of energy was radiating out from her. Then the air – if it could be called air in this silent, otherworldly place – rippled, shimmered in front of her, opened up, and out of the ripples trotted a milk-white stallion.

The aura of Deathness faded from around Susan as she put away the Sword and reached up to pet the horse with both hands before taking hold of the reins.

"Good Binky!" she murmured to the stallion, then turned to the others. "Ghosts have no weight, and Binky should be able to hold all the rest of us, so it's just a question of how the cat is going to get on. Quoth, you'll be the usual transport for the Death of Rats, won't you?"

"Rawk! No way!" the raven fluttered upward. "I'm not hanging around Mr. Meow while he's back in cat form, and you're going after something that doesn't have eyeballs! Awrk! Not my problem!"

SQUEAK!

"Or they're going after you! Raahk! I've done my bit! Call me when you've got something shiny and round to offer! And don't have cats!"

The raven circled the group before flying up, up and away and disappeared against the blackness of the starry sky.

"So much for that idea," Susan said. "I suppose Binky can carry the Death of Rats too. He wanted to ride a horse anyway."

SQUEAK.

"And the cat," Vetinari stated. "You know, I believe this may be one area in which my previous job experience may be most helpful." He leaned down and looked Greebo directly in his one good eye. "Mr. Cat, if I may address you by that name," he purred, "I am informed that you are a witch's cat and must therefore be presumed intelligent. So, as one thinking man to another, I must present you with some pertinent facts – the first being that you may join us on a journey which may lead to food, freedom, perhaps familiar territory for familiars, perhaps feline female companionship or other things which you may desire. Second, your alternative to joining us – peaceably – in this venture is to be left here in the middle of nowhere, where there is no food, no water, nothing – a place where you might desire to die but will not be able to do so. Third, that I am a trained assassin with years of experience at killing, and yet of the corporeal beings who may be able to carry you for this journey, I am also quite probably the least scary entity here. Do we understand each other now?"

"Meow?"

Greebo might not understand Vetinari's exact words, but he understood the meaning in that tone. Vetinari wasn't a ghost, and Vetinari didn't use the VOICE. Vetinari held his arms down and the cat climbed into them and settled onto and around Vetinari's shoulders, hoping no one he knew was watching.

"It's always a pleasure to assist someone in seeing reason," Vetinari told Susan and the Death of Rats. Mounting the stallion behind Susan with a huge, wary tomcat wrapped near his neck was a worthy exercise for his assassin's training, and feeling rather than seeing the ghost of 'After' Edwards climb up and settle in back of him made things even more interesting. But with the Death of Rats settled in front of Susan, they were ready to be on their way once more.

"So," Vetinari said, "we have our transportation, but to where can we transport?"

"If Albert and Lu-Tze sent for Kaos, they might be in the thick of the fight and need our help. Think you can handle that?" Susan asked.

"If I am permitted to go there I shall. I'm not afraid of danger, if that's what you're asking. I _am_ an assassin, and mostly dead anyway."

"I am no assassin, Milady," 'After' Edwards intoned, "but I shall slay the enemy with my rapier wit."

SQUEAK.

"Right," Susan gritted her teeth and drew the Sword of Death once more. "Okay, Binky – let's head back toward where you came from – everyone, hold on!"

The dark, starry plain shimmered and in a flash of light the stallion and its five riders were gone.

[* * * *]


	27. Councils of War

One thing to be said of the Ankh-Morpork Pork Futures Warehouse – no matter what time of year you met with Chrysoprase the Troll, you were guaranteed a chilly reception. Vimes could see his breath condensing into fog as ghostly hog carcasses drifted overhead. But that was all part of the Breccia mob boss's scheme. The cold helped him think and the eerie atmosphere helped his non-troll opponents and business rivals not think. Fortunately, cold had no effect on golems, and Commander Vimes had Constable Dorfl as well as a heavy winter coat on his side for going mano-a-creepo this afternoon.

Vimes wasn't the only one in a heavy coat, either. Chrysoprase was evidently trying to show off his multicultural credentials by having with him not just his usual troll enforcers, but a trio of non-troll assistants. Vimes recognized one of them – a zombie law clerk of Mr. Slant in the firm of Morecombe, Slant and Honeyplace who was also a member of Constable Reg Shoe's Dead Rights group. But Chrysoprase had also invited – to Vimes' surprise – a dwarf of very business-like appearance and a curvaceous, curly-haired blond woman in heavy makeup and an even heavier fancy fur coat.

"Commander Vimes," Chrysoprase grinned a mouthful of gemstone teeth, "how good of you to join me."

"I'm here to _meet_ with you," Vimes corrected. "Not join. At your request, remember?"

"Heh. What did I tell you?" Chrysoprase chuckled to the assembled company. "Dere is no puttin' one over on dis man, is dere?"

The zombie law clerk made a dutiful note of that fact on a small memo pad.

"Commander," Chrysoprase continued, "I believe you already know my regular boys, Slice and Mica." He gestured to the troll toughs behind him. "May I introduce my other associates, Mr. Beaker," the zombie clerk nodded, "Mr. Ranulf Ranulfsson," the dwarf, "an' my new secretary, Miss Angie Hogencamp."

The blond woman flashed a smile at Vimes and struck a flirtatious pose.

"She's a special lady," Chrysoprase grinned.

 _I'd bet_ , Vimes thought. But you'd have to be something other than special to want to work for the head of the Breccia.

"Cut to the chase," Vimes growled. "I'm a busy man and there's a lot going on right now." Like the all-important Guild Council meeting he wasn't being allowed to attend . . . .

Chrysoprase as usual wasn't rattled.

"Angie, baby, show da man der file we have pulled togedder for him."

With a pretty pout, Miss Hogencamp drew a manila sleeve from her fur coat and held it out. Vimes made no move to take it.

"No strings attached," Chrysoprase said and held out his hammer-like hands to show his fingers weren't crossed. "I am jus' bein' der helpful citizen, giving der police some useful information in a matter of our mutual interest."

"Uh huh," Vimes grunted. "And what would that be?"

"Dat would be in helpin' make sure dat certain individuals get . . . apprehended . . . before dey can make dis fine city of ours a less friendly business environment for upstandin' persons such as myself an' my good friend Mr. Ranulfsson here."

Vimes made a mental note to himself to inquire just what sort of 'honest' business Mr. Ranulfsson might be in. He knew Chrysoprase had begun to get out of the troll drug racket since the prices and profits had started to drop like the customers usually did.

"These certain individuals wouldn't happen to be commercial rivals of yours? By coincidence, of course?"

Now it was Chrysoprase's turn to snort.

"For shame dat der Commander of der Watch would think it!" The troll kingpin was the picture of mock horror. "No, Mr. Vimes. I will admit dat in der past I may have engaged in some . . . t'ings which may have been seen in a less dan positive light. But even I would not stoop to dis t'ing called politics. Regrettably, der same cannot be said of others. And der politics I see shapin' up aren't der kind dat look welcomin' to – how shall I say it? – persons of der non-human persuasion." Chrysoprase paused and Ranulf Ranulfsson nodded in agreement. "Dese are desperate times, dat force dose of us in der rest of der community to work togedder. So what we is handin' you is a few tidbits of information dat might be of use in der days ahead. Dat is all. No favors. No bribes. Nothin' but der facts. Angie, give der file to der nice Constable Dorfl." Chrysoprase held up a hand as he saw Vimes about to object. "Show dat der contents is nothin' but der informational papers. Mr. Beaker here can be a witness to der most important fact of all – dat nothin' illegal or immoral is takin' place. You don't t'ink our friend Mr. Slant would let his law clerk get involved in nothin' illegal, do you?"

"Nothing _provably_ illegal," Vimes admitted.

"Den let us give you dis helpful file, like der good citizens we are. After all, you let anyone off der street come to you when dey got somethin' to say, so why not us? It would be a shame if somethin' we found out could maybe save a life or two and you didn't want to take it."

 _You bastard!_ Vimes thought. That was the one bribe, if it deserved to be called that, even Vimes couldn't refuse. Chrysoprase was right – the police didn't turn away information or informants just because they didn't care for the smell of the source. Ignorance at a time like this was no better than culpability. But it didn't make him feel any better as he watched Miss Hogencamp rifle open the file to display the non-monetary nature of its contents before handing it over to his constable. His one consolation was the slight, bitter edge he saw in Chrysoprase's expression as the file changed possessors. The gangster, for all his display of confidence, wasn't happy about having to do this either. Breaking the limbs of informants was much more his line of work than being an informant himself. As for his working with dwarves?

 _Desperate times indeed_. . . .

"I trust dat dis spirit of cooperation will not be taken der wrong way," Chrysoprase grumbled as Vimes motioned to Dorfl that it was time to be taking their leave.

"You mean that I'll stop regarding you as criminal scum?" Vimes managed a grin wolfish enough to do Captain Angua proud. "I promise, you have no worries on that score."

Chrysoprase's response was a deep, throaty chuckle that sounded like an avalanche's attempt at a sneeze.

"Ah, Commander, it is so good dat in dese troubling days we can still understan' each other dis well! We don't lose our touch, eh? Dere is still somethin' for der younger generation to learn from us both!" The gangster managed a final smile before a parting grimace. "An' when you catch up to our friend Captain Quirke, you give him our regards? Mr. Albite too. Dat troll is not a good troll."

"I'll be giving them my own first," Vimes said.

"Dat'll do. Until next time, den."

With that, and the large manila folder, Vimes and Constable Dorfl made their way out of the freezing Pork Futures Warehouse to the relative sunshine and comfort of the Ankh-Morpork city streets. With any luck, whatever the Watch might learn from the folder would not come too late to counter whatever mischief the Guild leaders were up to at that very moment. The Palace might have its newest Patrician in place before they even got back to Pseudopolis Yard. That possibility made even the sunshine feel cold.

 _To think I never liked Vetinari . . . ._

[-]

"Postponed the vote? What do you mean they postponed the vote?"

Vimes was stunned, but not displeased by the news as he, Sybil, Carrot, Moist, Adora, Harry King, Of the Twilight the Darkness and assorted golems gathered around the large dining room table at Scoone Avenue Number One for what had been intended as an unofficial council of war to follow the Guild Leaders' meeting in the Rats Chamber. A postponement meant that Lord Snike hadn't gotten his way – at least not yet. Neither had anyone else been put forward to replace Vetinari as Patrician. There was still time to prepare for the worst – or maybe prevent it.

For someone who still wore a cosmetic job to make himself look like the loser in a Mended Drum martial arts tournament, Moist von Lipwig appeared inordinately pleased with himself, balancing a clownish rubber ball on the tip of a pencil and whistling a merry tune.

"You have something to do with this, Lipwig?"

"Who, me?" Moist grinned. "You know I wasn't allowed to attend the Guild meeting any more than you were, Commander. I just decided to be a good, patriotic citizen and greet each of the Guild leaders as they arrived at the Palace today. Such an assortment of responses I got from them - one or two acted positively afraid to look me in the eye! But Mrs. Palm was so effusive I'm sure the local busybodies will be whispering to Spike about it in no time."

Adora rolled her eyes, but couldn't hide a thin grin of her own.

"And Dr. Whiteface was kind enough to give me one of his balls."

 _As if you needed any more of them!_ Vimes thought. He was pretty sure he knew where Lipwig had gotten the pencil from too, but now was not the time for quibbles. There was a lot more to this story.

"And then?" Vimes asked.

"Well, since I was at the Palace anyway . . . ." The Postmaster's grin turned positively wicked, "I asked Mr. Drumknott to give me an educational and informative tour of the Palace's internal plumbing system. You know, the one that carries noises like crazy through the whole Palace."

"Parts of the Palace, anyway." Now Vimes was grinning as well. He had always thought that Vetinari designed the system himself as an internal espionage mechanism. It certainly didn't extend to the Oblong Office, and probably not to anyplace else in the complex that Vetinari wanted to keep truly private. But nothing occurred in the Rats Chamber, its side chambers or the Public Rooms that Vetinari and the dark clerks didn't seem to know about. "So you decided to keep yourself informed about what was going on at the meeting, eh?"

"I would _never_ eavesdrop!" Moist pretended to be shocked by the very suggestion. "Not when Drumknott can do it so much better than I, anyway. No, Vimes – I assure you, I devoted my entire time there today to improving my understanding and law-abiding nature."

Adora couldn't restrain a snort, either.

"So while Mr. Drumknott seemed otherwise occupied, I asked Mr. Pump to refresh my memory on some of our possibly late Lordship's express commands – to better follow them, of course. Mr. Pump has the most remarkable way of reciting them too. Mr. Pump, what was the very first instruction of Lord Vetinari's that you repeated to me that time I so unwisely told you to screw your own head off years ago?"

To the assembled crowd's shock, the voice that came out of Mr. Pump was not the golem's own, but that of Lord Vetinari himself:

"Ah, Lipwig. Despite everything, you do not pay attention. Mr. Pump cannot be instructed to destroy himself. I would have thought you at least could have worked this out. If you instruct him to do so again, punitive action will be taken."1

"And I never have instructed you to harm yourself again, have I, Mr. Pump?"

"No, Mr. Lipvig," the golem said, "You Have Not."

"You see?" Moist gestured to Mr. Pump. "Edifying and effective! Mr. Pump has quite a number of instructions direct from the Patrician's mouth which he can recite perfectly for me – most of them dealing with various punishments for unwise actions on my part or someone else's part. So while we were walking around the undercellars of the Palace near all those fascinating pipes, I made sure I had Mr. Pump summon up all of them. It sounded just like having Lord Vetinari there beside me." He shrugged. "Anyway, for some reason, the Guild leaders seem to have gotten very hesitant about voting to replace Vetinari all of a sudden, so they've put off a vote until next week at the earliest."

"Made 'em a little nervous, did you?" Harry laughed.

"I think it's the prospect of Lord Vetinari not being dead that did the trick," Moist said. "Or his remark about the alligator pits. Anyway, we don't know that he _is_ dead, do we?"

"I haven't heard anything one way or another from the Archchancellor," Vimes replied.

"No – because they're too busy making a mess of the railroad," Harry grumbled.

"What? I hadn't heard that!"

"Sorry, might've forgotten to mention that," Moist said. "Harry tells me the way the railroad tracks were laid needs to be redone because it's interfering with their magic somehow. The Glooper down at the Royal Bank isn't working either. No idea if it uses actual magic or not, but something strange is going on."

"Just what we need," Vimes shook his head. "Magic going haywire, machines messing up too. What's next, the sky starts raining rats?"

Willikens, who had been unofficially attending the meeting in his capacity as butler and chief servant to the Vimes family, frowned and walked over to look out one of the dining room windows.

"You shouldn't make jokes about that sort of thing, Sam," Lady Sybil remarked.

"Um, right," Vimes coughed. "It _isn't_ raining rats from the sky, is it?"

"Not yet, Sir," Willikens replied.

"Okay. Well," Vimes continued, "hopefully the wizards will keep us posted if there are any changes in Vetinari's condition or local meteorology. But in the meantime, it sounds like Lipwig and Mr. Pump have bought us another week. My meeting with Mr. Chrysoprase this afternoon may have yielded some interesting results." He placed a hand on the thick manila folder Miss Hogencamp had given to Constable Dorfl. "I haven't had the chance to look it over yet, but it seems even the Breccia isn't too happy with our Mr. Snike. Normally I'd consider that a point in someone's favor, but . . . ."

"This enemy o' my enemy ain't no friend of ours, right?" Harry added. "Too right! If them rotten cowards try to show their faces anywhere my sanitation boys spot 'em, we'll teach 'em the true meaning of bein' in deep-"

"Trouble," Vimes interjected with an eye on his wife. "Just be sure to let the Watch in on the action, Sir Harry. We don't know exactly how many there are, or who's backing them, but the old Cable Street Irregulars were no joke and these new ones aren't either. I don't want any more civilians getting hurt."

"We'll be very un-civil, I promise," Harry nodded.

"There are some other non-civilians willing to pitch in," Adora Belle Dearheart informed the group. "A Sergeant Perks of Borogravia responded to the clacks message we sent. He says he and his little lads will make sure any supply caravans Lord Snike tries to get from Zlobenia meet a roadblock. And he sends his best regards to you, Commander."

Vimes chuckled.

"He and his little lads, eh? The enemy won't know what hit them." _In more ways than one,_ he thought.

"Several of the Watch officers have sent clacks that they're on their way back as well."

"Excellent. Things might be shifting our way after all." But Vimes didn't smile as he said it. They weren't out of the woods yet. The real difficulty would be in finding out who they could count as friend or foe among the city's movers and shakers and where an angry enemy would strike next. Those were the main topics of discussion for the next few hours until the meeting broke up. But Vimes had another small detail nagging at the back of his mind as the company began to part ways, and pulled Moist aside before he could leave.

"With everything that's been going on, I kept forgetting to give you something the Watch found over at the alley near Sheer Street where you were attacked. We, uh, thought it might be something of yours." Awkwardly, Vimes drew the crushed Mason and Hawksworth jewelry box from his belt pouch and handed it over. For a moment, Moist's expression brightened, until he lifted the lid of the trampled box and saw its damaged contents. Adora had come over to see what the object was, and Moist winced as he gave her the broken piece of jewelry.

"Happy Anniversary, Spike. It didn't look like that when I bought it," Moist mumbled as he saw her examining the brooch and tracing the ruined inscription of her name with a finger. "Um, maybe it can be fixed or I'll replace it with something else."

"No," Adora said, closing her hands around her anniversary present. "I want to keep it just the way it is."

"But why?"

Adora sighed and had a sad smile on her face as she took one last look at the broken bauble before replacing the lid on the box.

"So that whenever you make me absolutely infuriated, Moist von Lipwig, I can take this out and stare at it and be reminded how lucky I am that you're still around to make me that angry."

"Well in that case, it'll probably be your most looked at piece of jewelry then," he said, brightening again.

[* * * *]

1 Going Postal by Terry Pratchett (New York: HarperCollins Publishers 2004), p. 97.


	28. The Men from Oook

"Vell, zis is certainly an awkvard situation," Otto Chriek said cheerfully as he looked up into the faces of his rescuer and friends.

"Oh, Otto!" Sacharissa cried.

The glowing eyes of the golem standing next to him dimmed a little.

"I Am Sorry, Mr. Chriek," Gladys said. "I Found As Much Of You As I Could, But I Did Not Find Enough."

The three foot tall vampire laughed and reached up to pat the golem woman on the hand. His morphic field had remained intact in spite of the Unmentionables' best (or worst) efforts, so he looked like himself once more – only smaller.

"My dear, I am glad you found zis much! I am grateful! A vampire should turn into ze bats, not zer dust bunnies. Besides," he smiled, "I haff been zis size before, you know, vhen I vas a little sucker learning on my Grandpapa Vlad's knees. I can absorb more mass and regain my size. It vill just take time."

"We thought we'd lost you for sure, Otto," William de Worde told him. "It's good to have you back. I guess we'll have to get you some smaller equipment and furniture until you're back to your old self."

"Yes. And zer vuns who attacked us? Zey are gone from zis building?"

"They're in the tanty at the moment," de Worde frowned. "But they're connected with that would-be dictator in Sator Square, so the danger isn't over. The City Watch thinks there could be a lot more where they came from."

"Vell, vell, vell," Otto pondered this information. "Zat is going to require some new tactics."

"Maybe – and I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to sit this fight out after what happened to you, Otto," de Worde said. "But the _Times_ has a job to do, starting with a Special Edition retracting the garbage they published using our press and our good name. An explanation for why we were out of print for a day or two as well. People need to know the truth about what's going on."

"Of course I vill not sit zis vun out!" Otto insisted. "No vun can accuse a Chriek of laying low, just because I am standing low!"

"We won't have Rocky to help us out either," Sacharissa said. "Not for another couple of weeks anyway, according to the hospital."

"So ve are short-staffed all around," Otto grinned. "But zat vas zer case in our early days too, and no one could silence us zen! Besides, I have a plan . . . ."

[* * * *]

"We shall burn the flesh from their very bones with the eldritch fires of wrath!" Professor Hix swore as he came across yet another pile of charred scripts stolen from the Dolly Sisters Little Playhouse. The emboldened Smuts had struck again, and this time five copies of _All's Well that Ends in a Wet Hole in the Ground_ lay in ashy ruins.

"Er, isn't burning other things not the best solution to the problem?" Rincewind asked. " _Not_ burning things would be more to the point." Rincewind understood the need to take punitive action against those who destroyed the written word. But the trouble with punitive action is that it usually involved punishment, and punishment all too often involved him. It didn't matter that Rincewind had nothing to do with plays, scripts, vandalism or street gangs. Sooner or later, it would all come back to him, and he already had the sort of karma that made carnival fortune tellers pack up their tents and run screaming whenever they saw him coming. He figured the fortune tellers were trying to demonstrate what an inspirational example he'd become. After all, Rincewind had more experience with running and screaming than anyone else on the Disc.

"Yes, it's all very well and good for you to talk about eldritch fires of wrath," Professor Macarona said to Professor Hix. "You've got the skull ring, after all. But the rest of us ought to stick with something more traditional. Can't we just turn them into frogs?"

That wasn't much of an improvement as far as Rincewind was concerned. Turning someone into a frog put that person at risk of being dried out and made into pills for the Bursar.1 Besides, the only thing Rincewind could turn another person into was an assailant, and possibly a victor.2

"Why don't we just find and talk to them and explain nicely that what they are doing isn't in their best interests?" Not that he was particularly keen on the whole finding and talking to gang members thing either. But he'd made the mistake of being present when the Librarian and Professor Hix decided to join forces for this little vendetta, and now there was no way out. The Men from O.o.o.k.3 would put a stop to the Smuts if it was the last thing Rincewind ever did.

" _Talk_ to them? _Nicely_?" Professor Hix snorted. "The time for talk is past! Now is the time for action!"

"Yes, that's just what I'm afraid of."

"Oook . . . . ook . . . ook," the Librarian added, returning from his surveillance mission and pointing in the direction of Turn Again Lane. He'd spotted one of the Smuts ducking into the back of a nearby wedding cake shop, so that's where the group of wizards was off to next. And the Librarian didn't intend to leave anyone behind, so Rincewind glumly followed along. But this wasn't going to be a piece of cake - he had no appetite for entering a vandal's layer. As far as Rincewind could see, it was only going to end in tiers.

[-]

One of the biggest problems of any world as composed and riddled with magic as the Discworld is its belief system. That is to say, in the Discworld, if a person believes in something strongly enough, it can become real. Not always, but sometimes. And when magic isn't working the way it should, the results can be dramatic indeed. Not enough by themselves to tip an entire world off balance, but enough to cause other disasters . . . .

What could be more magical than a wedding, Miss Doreen thought, except for a perfectly made wedding cake? And what wedding cake could be more perfectly made than one of hers? Miss Doreen was quite sure she didn't have an answer to that one. She stood back at a distance of half a broomstick from her latest confectionary creation and tapped the round end of her very favorite wooden spoon against the palm of her hand with triumphant satisfaction. This cake was a work of art, she told herself, from the decorative icing border at the bottom to the sugar gum figures at the top. It was all her own handiwork, with a bit of help from that magical spoon of hers. Miss Doreen, maker of wedding cakes extraordinaire, was an incurable romantic as usually only those who have never been married themselves can be. So she believed very firmly in using the right tool for the job, which was always her special spoon when it came to the mixing of wedding cake batters and frostings. She believed in her spoon. Let the priestesses of Anoia have their ladles, Miss Doreen, priestess of pastry, had her wooden spoon.

She would have wielded it with more alacrity if she had seen what came dodging into the rear door of the kitchen at that moment. As it was, her contentment and her palm-tapping stopped the moment she heard the back door slam shut with a force that almost made the cake shake. Only one character had the gracelessness to come barging into her shop from the alley that way and she didn't know why on the Disc, family or not, she put up with him still after all these years.

"Smally Sullivan!" She yelled. "You turn that tail of yours around and get yourself out of here this instant! I won't have you stomping in my kitchen and wrecking my hard work."

"Auntie Ree!" Smalldab yelped, wild eyed, showing no intention of turning around, "you have to hide me! The monkey is after me again!"

"Don't you 'Auntie Ree' me, young man. You've been hanging out with those fellow hoodlums of yours sniffing troll perfumes or something, haven't you?" She waved the wooden spoon at him. "What monkey?"

"The magic monkey from the University! The one who likes books and stuff!"

Miss Doreen had always suspected her nephew was a few matches shy of a box, but now she thought he might not even have two brain cells to rub together and make a fire.

"You mean the Librarian?" She shook her head. "Why would he be after you? Besides, he's not a monkey, he's an orang-" Before she could finish speaking, they both heard a sound of angry voices and orangutan hoots from down at the end of the alleyway. Looking around for a weapon or anything that might be substituted as one, Smalldab grabbed the only object he saw – his Aunt's long wooden spoon. Snatching it out of her hands, he ran for the front of the bake shop, barely noticing how the spoon started to glow . . . .

[* * * *]

"Whatever you're bringing me, it better not be more bad news," Lord Snike grumbled without looking up from the city schematic he was studying. He was in no mood for interruptions of any kind, and all the ones he'd gotten in the past two days had been nothing but dreadful. The fiasco in Sator Square, it seemed, was not enough by itself to drive him farther and farther away from the goal he'd spent most of his life pursuing. Now he must be tripped up again by one obstacle after another, one desertion after another, or worse. Twelve good men down with injuries at the Square, another half dozen arrested by the City Watch that day, including Grag Flambrung . . . have to do something about that . . . and his initially successful attempt to give Netulia the prize she wanted – control of the _Ankh-Morpork Times_ – that had turned into a disaster too. Worse than a disaster, really. Witworth, his right-hand man, captured along with three other Particulars. On top of it all, Sorville disappearing on him as well . . . .

Although, come to think of it, he couldn't really blame Mr. Sorville for wanting to lay low. Aside from worrying about those minor guild infractions, Sorville must know how displeased Lord Snike was with his inner circle. The bungling of what should have been a quick and easy takeover of the city was mostly their fault after all. Lord Snike's plan had been perfect enough. It should have worked. But Sorville and the Assassin's Guild had never gotten rid of that blasted Commander Vimes when they should have, years ago. Back in his father's day, in Lord Winder's day, guild and government knew enough to get rid of troublemakers like that – the Keel fellow, for example. As for Witworth – damn the man! Witworth could have tried a bit harder at suggesting a better example to hold up at the rally than that blasted Postmaster. Witworth was supposed to be an advisor, blast it, not just someone who muttered a few puling, reluctant misgivings and then let his leader walk into a hornet's nest.

For the business with the Postmaster, Lord Snike's fool of a troll Albite hadn't even gotten that bit right. The Lipwig fellow should have been finished, crippled at the very least. Instead from what Snike heard, the man had been parading himself all over town making Snike and his Guard look like fools. He'd even showed up at the Palace for the meeting of the Guild Council, and Snike was sure Lipwig had something to do with those cowards putting off his triumph yet again. Not that he begrudged the Postmaster holding a grudge too – Snike supposed he had earned that – and Lipwig, like Vimes, needed to be disposed of permanently. But Vimes – damned, dratted, meddling _Vimes_ – he was enemy number one, and surrounded by a guard force of his own. So how was Snike to get rid of him?

Lord Snike had become so wrapped up in these thoughts he almost forgot that he wasn't alone in the room. Not good, if he wanted to be Patrician for more than a week - Patricians didn't survive by being careless, as Lord Winder would have said. Snike looked up from the schematic and sighed. He needn't be worried this time – his interruptor was Mr. Selfway, one of the most loyal, and most unexciting Particulars. Not much of a doer, Mr. Selfway, but not much of a bungler either, and very observant - that too.

"Yes?" Lord Snike stiffened and straightened up. The way Mr. Selfway could just stand there . . . watching . . . was nerve wracking, but Mr. Selfway wouldn't see Lord Snike with one single nerve wracked. "Do you have some good news for me?"

Mr. Selfway nodded and gave Lord Snike a half bow.

"My Lord, I think I have . . . ."

[* * * *]

1 The Bursar of Unseen University had been insane for a number of years, but fortunately a correct dosage of dried frog pills caused him to hallucinate that he was sane and therefore able to function. There has been no study of what, if anything, dried Bursar pills might do for insane frogs.

2 Usually at the same time that the assailant turned Rincewind into a victim.

3 Occult Obstructors Of Kleptopyromaniacs


	29. Statues of the Apocalypse

Traveling through the space between spaces itched, at least to Vetinari, and the journey came with one impossibly brief, impossibly long moment of cold. Then, with a snap, the white stallion landed and they were on a solid surface once more – a chilly one. Ice and snow and sandstretched everywhere around them on a frozen, dismal desert surface. Rising up above that surface, like small dunes coated with drifting snow were four mounted figures as still as statues – or rather, three mounted figures and a fourth that hung eerily above the surface with no mount underneath it. Susan reined Binky to a halt as they trotted up close.

"Grandfather?" she whispered.

The hanging/floating skeleton in a black robe did not respond in any way, even when Susan dismounted Death's horse and reached over to touch the sleeve of black material. She frowned and decided to try another tactic.

"Grand-pa?"

Again, nothing.

"Grandpoppy? Gramps? Grampaw?" She ventured without result. "He _hates_ those names," she explained to the others.

"If he were capable of responding, I believe he would," Vetinari said. "Ergo, he is not."

None of the four frozen Horsemen of the Apocalypse did anything as the rest of the party dismounted and walked around them, even when 'After' Edwards tried floating into their line of sight while flapping his arms and making shouts of "Boogedah-Boogedah-Boo!"

"This isn't possible." Susan moved from one Horseman to another, shaking her head at each one. "They can't be frozen in time! Grandfather can step outside of time any . . . time he wants. It's in the Rules!"

"As we've already seen, the Rules were apparently made to be broken," Vetinari pointed out. "Rules usually are."

"It is not in Time that they are frozen," a familiar voice said as its owner stepped out from behind the portly War on his Warhorse. "Nor Space. This is the work of a powerful magic." Lu-Tze pointed to an area of the desert that could barely be seen through the swirls of snow. Another human silhouette could just be made out standing before a glowing, golden object that hovered in mid-air as Death and 'After' Edwards did. "Master Malich is still attempting to break the spell."

"But not succeeding." Susan shivered. "That explains why the Auditors weren't afraid to invade Grandfather's House. He can't do anything to stop them now."

"Rather careless of them nevertheless," Vetinari mused. "They didn't take sufficient precautions against Mr. Soak, or against you for that matter. You weren't in their book."

 _She doesn't have to be._

The voice sounded in their heads a moment before the cluster of little grey robes full of nothing surrounded them.

 _She is no match for Us._

Susan drew Death's Sword and held it ready for combat.

"You think so?" She glared at them. "I've taken your like out before and I can do it again! So which one of you wants to go first?"

Although they bunched in around the group and the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, none of the Auditors of Reality seemed eager to approach any closer. One or two of them appeared to be nudging the Auditors standing next to them to go forward but without success.

"Not one of you, eh?" The shadow of a skull showed through Susan's features. "You know you can die now, don't you? But you're too scared to do it!"

 _We don't have to do anything._

 _We can just wait._

 _You are mostly mortal. We are not._

 _You will get tired. We do not._

 _There are too many of Us and too few of You._

 _You will kill Yourself trying to stop Us all._

Now the circle of Auditors showed confidence for a set of empty robes and in unison moved an inch farther in but stayed well out of range of the Sword. That didn't keep them safe from every weapon however. A blur flashed out from the group to strike the frontmost row of Auditors everywhere at once. Dozens of grey robes disappeared in clouds of dust. The Auditors who did not disintegrate moved backwards quickly.

 _It is not possible!_ One Auditor cried, then popped out of existence from the realization of its own failure at correct observation. Other Auditors vanished in puffs of shock as well.

Lu-Tze, who had blinked out of sight for a single moment blinked back in just as quickly, with his ever-present broom propped over one shoulder and an innocent expression. The master of Deja Fu was not even breathing hard. The ranks of surrounding Auditors thinned still more as some of them either teleported away from this new threat or ceased to exist simply from an awareness of it.

"They're not difficult to kill once they make themselves killable, are they?" Vetinari asked.

Lu-Tze nodded.

"That is correct of most. Not all. Caution must still be exercised, but in many the element of surprise is sufficient. A physical blow is not needed."

"Ah. Interesting." Vetinari noticed a trio of Auditors attempting to glide closer without being noticed. Rather than point them out or take refuge behind the Sweeper, he strode over toward them and watched as they started to back away. Not all of the Auditors had the confidence of world destroyers. "Would now be a bad time to mention that I'm an Assassin?" He asked the three. For the Auditors it was – one of them turned to ash at the challenge, while its companions retreated again.

"It is an excellent time to mention it," Lu-Tze concluded.

As further confirmation, all of the grey Auditors of Reality vanished at once, not leaving behind clouds of dust or evidence of their destruction. They disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared.

"It can't be that easy," Vetinari said, looking around at a snowy desert without a trace of empty robes of any color.

"It isn't," Susan sighed. "We haven't even made a dent in their numbers. They'll be back, more of them, and they'll be armed or embodied somehow now that they know we're here." She sheathed the Sword again. "Unfortunately, they're right. I'm not my grandfather. I won't be able to fight them endlessly even in this place no matter how hard I try, and neither will you. They'll shape change into wolves or humans with weapons or something worse, and they'll have their leader with them."

"Leader?"

Susan and Lu-Tze both nodded.

"They might all look alike and say 'We' a lot, but they're individuals the same way we are, even if none of them want to admit it. Most of them don't start trouble by themselves, but there's always one big bad egg in the lot. One Auditor who's a little crazier than the rest and bullies the others all into it. When Unity helped us fight them the last time, the bad egg was one that called himself Mr. White."

"This Unity that you and your grandfather spoke about before," Vetinari asked, "she was an Auditor too?"

Susan hesitated before answering.

"She started out as one," Susan glanced back at Death's unmoving figure, "but she didn't stay one. Grandfather said she had a soul when she died. Most Auditors don't. They just sort of cease to exist. But Unity was different – she was really alive."

"And the crimson Auditors are different as well. I wonder why."

Vetinari and the rest of the group were still pondering this in silence when a weary Albert left the floating spellbook behind, joined them and bummed a cigarette off of Lu-Tze.

"No good," Albert muttered around his smoke. "I'm not getting anywhere. The little buggers found a way to shield the book from me."

"Does that mean they're trapped like that forever?" Susan looked again at the four Horsemen. "There has to be something we can do."

"The spell's probably shielded from other wizards too," Albert grunted. "The Auditors'll have it fixed so they're the only ones who can get their nonexistent hands on it. Not that our Mr. Soak is doing a bad job fighting them off right now with our other new friends." Intent on his own spell attempts, he'd missed seeing the group's confrontation with the small band of Auditors just driven away. They filled him in on current events.

"So even if we could bring the wizards of Unseen University here, they wouldn't be able to do anything about the spell either," Susan said.

"Better to leave 'em where they are," Albert told her. "If we really want to stop the Auditors from destroying the Disc, the best thing we can do is distract the enemy while Ridcully and the wizards and witches try to undo the damage to the old patterns and stop the new one from being completed."

SQUEAK.

"Take the battle to them?" Albert blew a smoke ring and looked down at the Death of Rats. "With what? Just us? I'm still not keen on dying, mind you."

"It doesn't seem bad so far," 'After' Edwards put in. "Has its ups and downs of course." He bobbed, raised and lowered himself to make a point.

"I'm rather hoping to rejoin the land of the living myself," Vetinari said. "But I can't do that if the land of the living isn't still there when this is over. Whatever the risks, I think we must be prepared to take them."

The Sweeper smiled.

"Yes. For is it not written 'Get it done or I'll box yer bloody ears'?"

 _We may do that to you anyway._

A grey Auditor appeared before them again and with a nod of its cowl, thousands more materialized behind it. While they all still looked alike, there was definitely something different about the Auditor in front. It was just a little bit more solid than the others, a bit larger and more menacing. And to Vetinari it seemed almost familiar. Beside him, Susan drew the Sword once more and stepped forward to confront this new menace.

"So you're the Mr. White of this batch, eh?"

 _Mr. White was a fool._

 _We are not._

The Auditor answered.

 _We have a plan._

 _We are in control._

"Really?" Susan taunted. "You lot die just as easily as those other Auditors did – maybe moreso. You've broken so many Rules there's no going back for you, is there? You're wagering everything on one throw of the dice. Is that your idea of control?"

Several Auditors did a passing imitation of a nervous shuffle for beings who appeared to have no feet to shuffle with. Here and there in the crowd an Auditor vanished from sight. But the Lead Auditor stood, or rather hovered, its ground.

 _It is more control than You have at the moment._

 _You cannot stop Us._

Susan held the Sword so that its blade pointed toward the Lead Auditor.

"I'm bloody well prepared to try," she said.

 _Then You should also be prepared to die._

As it spoke, the ranks of Auditors of Reality behind it began to shape shift and blur in the frozen mists and snow. Thousands of grey robes full of nothing became thousands of snarling, snapping wolves.

"An interesting philosophical question," Lu-Tze said, readying his broom for combat. "If Death is suspended and unable to act, must Miss Susan kill herself in order to die?"

"I suggest we not find out," Vetinari answered, drawing a pair of long daggers from somewhere within his black outfit.

"Yes, I'd rather not, thanks," Susan whispered.

 _Havelock Vetinari, this does not have to be your fight_ , the Lead Auditor announced.

"Really? I think that it does." Vetinari frowned. "You seem to have made it my fight when you tripped me in that hallway some time ago. It _was_ you, wasn't it?"

The Lead Auditor didn't answer, which was, Vetinari knew, a very good answer. The Lead Auditor also hadn't changed its shape, but the other Auditor/wolves began circling the group, barking and growling to intimidate them. The loudest growling of all came not from the wolves, though, but from within the group facing the wolves, and once again the Auditors did not get in the first blow. A tornado of fur, claws and rage leaped at the closest of the wolves and began turning it into a mass of wolf body parts and sprays of red blotches on the snow.

"The kitty cat doesn't like doggies, does he?" 'After' Edwards gulped, turning slightly more translucent since he was already as pale as he could get.

The 'doggies' couldn't get away from Greebo fast enough. Not being real wolves, they understood bluster but not much else about fighting or using the physical shapes they'd taken. Some of the wolf Auditors simply popped out of existence in unwolf-like terror as the tomcat finished off its first victim and jumped onto the back of another. As most of the wolves either ran from that spectacle or were distracted and paralyzed by it, a far greater number fell to the onslaught of Lu-Tze moving even faster. The Lead Auditor continued to face Susan while not allowing her to get within striking distance. Several wolves maneuvered around the others and some were bold enough to make a leap at her, but none reached their target. The Auditor/wolves attacking her were no match for the Sword either – or for Susan's allies. Vetinari inhumed the ones that came at her flank, with Assassin's Guild efficiency. Whether he wanted to be in a fight or not, Albert and his magic did in scores of others. But the Lead Auditor just stood watching and waiting, somehow parrying every attack aimed at it, remaining unmoved by the casualties all around it.

"How many are you willing to sacrifice for your dream scheme?" Susan panted as she tried to fight her way to the Leader.

 _It is not a dream._

 _It will become a Reality._

 _And any price is worth paying to bring order out of disorder._

 _The end justifies the means._

"Really?" A familiar voice asked. "Well justify this, you little buggers!"

A ray of light flashed and a thousand or more wolves disappeared at one blow as Kaos stood in the group's midst once more, accompanied by a small band of crimson Auditors.

The Lead Auditor vanished, but not in the same way the wolves did in the chaos wave that had burst out from Kaos' attack.

"Fancy you lot catching up with me," Kaos said, still sounding like the friendly neighborhood milkman but not looking anything like him while in a battered, butterfly-inscribed helm and frost-rimed battle armor. Along with the rest of Team Death he looked out over a plain that was empty of grey robes – and wolves – once more. "They run out fast enough when you catch 'em off guard," he observed.

"But it's still just temporary," Susan sighed. "They'll be back – again and again."

"I don't suppose there is any chance they could be running out in another sense?" Vetinari frowned. "How many are involved in this conspiracy? Are their numbers limitless?"

"We've put a good dent in the lot. I have, anyway," Kaos told them. "If we release the others," he nodded over toward his fellow Horsemen of the Apocalypse, "we'll be enough to finish the rest of this bad batch. Or if we could just get the top bastard, that'd be a big help too."

Covered in wolf blood, Greebo did not bother to listen to any conversation. The witch's cat howled its anger at having nothing left to fight, then abruptly switched over to licking itself off. The Death of Rats seemed to be looking at the cat speculatively, which gave Vetinari an idea as well.

"You said the Death of Rats was something of a specialist," he asked Susan, "but does he have all of your grandfather's abilities while not being mortal also?"

"I suppose so," she shrugged. "He seems to. He's a lot more like Grandfather than I am. Death incarnate, but only for rats." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why?"

"And Albert Malich is a great wizard . . . ." Vetinari mused. Without another word to her, Vetinari walked over to where Kaos was standing and whispered another query to him. Susan couldn't hear the conversation, but she saw Kaos nod in response to the question and saw a slow, menacing grin appear on Kaos' face. Both men turned toward the Death of Rats for a moment, but then went to have a private whisper with Albert next. Whatever they spoke of to Albert, he seemed at first startled, then nodded affirmation, and then he too allowed a malicious smile to tweak the corners of his mouth. Vetinari's own expression as he returned to where Susan stood remained as bland as ever.

"So what are you three up to?" she asked him. "Or is it you four?"

The Death of Rats was still watching Greebo and not paying any attention to the scrutiny he'd been getting.

"Well?" Susan asked again when she got no reply.

"Simply an idea I had," Vetinari responded at last. "I've no way of knowing whether it will work or not, but as the Auditors seem to be everywhere, I think it's best to discuss it no more than necessary."

"With as few of us as necessary?"

"Yes." His face remained bland. "If you don't mind."

"And what if I do mind?"

"Then I have no choice but to resort to a favorite phrase of one of my reluctant civil servants:" He grinned slightly. "Trust me!"

[* * * *]


	30. A Trip to the Bank

He wasn't a bank robber. Ergo he wasn't about to commit a bank robbery. He was merely making a necessary – and even patriotic – withdrawal from the Royal Bank in the name of a necessary and patriotic cause. It was just that simple, Captain Quirke told himself, and told his men. It's not as if Ankh-Morpork should even have a 'royal' bank anymore, since everyone knew that there were no more kings and the city was a Patricianship, really. Besides – a bank run by a . . . dog? A sexually perverted dog at that? Might as well shut the whole thing down and start fresh while they were about it. The more he thought about the prospect, the more Captain Quirke was firm in his resolve. He and his New Guard weren't committing a crime – they were taking a step toward restoring order. If those poor, misled bank employees had to be alarmed or worse in the process, so be it.

"Money . . . ." he whispered, as if it would come when called. It usually came for Lord Snike, and it could come for Captain Quirke too. Quirke already fancied he was like Lord Snike in every other way, almost. Natural leaders both, if only others would let them lead, would recognize that leadership quality in them. He put away his spyglass and motioned his men forward toward the bank. They weren't wearing their uniforms today - that had been deemed unwise. But they still moved stealthily in formation as they crossed the broad avenue toward the bank. The one City Watch officer posted at the bank's entrance appeared to take no notice of them and whistled a happy tune as he knocked his pipe a few times against one of the bank's pillars. Smoking on the job! Well, thought Quirke, what could you expect from dwarves?

The New Guards' march into the bank continued unimpeded as Quirke and ten of his finest entered through the massive oak doors, passed the splendid foyer and went toward the lines of thin red velvet rope in front of the clerks' counters. The sound of the doors closing behind them, the clatter of their own footsteps on the hard marble floor echoed all around the massive central chamber. On one wall, an immense clock ticked, but other sounds were almost nonexistent. No customers chattered in a waiting line, no little old ladies had brought their yippy dogs or nippy dispositions inside. In fact, Quirke and his men appeared to be the only clientele in the Royal Bank at all.

"May I be of some assistance?" A smooth, imperious voice in his ear caused Captain Quirke to jump. Malvolio Bent, chief cashier of the bank, had come up on their flank without so much as a whisper of warning, absurd a possibility as that seemed. He was a conspicuous enough looking individual, Mr. Bent, with his bankman's black jacket and pinstripe trousers, the proper business effect ruined by his enormous shoes and the red rubber ball over his nose. And to think, Quirke fumed inwardly, that this . . . this . . . _clown_ had the audacity to startle _him_ , a proper military officer!

"Yes," Quirke grunted, drawing himself up straight. "You may bring me the bank's money."

The cashier's eyes and smile gleamed.

"You wish to apply for a loan?"

"Not quite." Quirke snapped his fingers and his guardsmen drew their weapons. "But we will be making a withdrawal."

Mr. Bent appeared to take no notice of the weapons, though his smile dimmed a little.

"Hrrmm, and you have an account with us then?"

"No, you fool! Just give us all your money!" Losing patience, Quirke drew his own service short sword and pointed its blade at the chief cashier for emphasis.

"Ah. A mugging. I see," Mr. Bent frowned. "Well, I accept your kind compliment, but I will still need to see your Guild license. I must inform you that attempts to commit a robbery here are considered very inadvisable."

"I am _not_ a member of the Thieves' Guild, I am _not_ a thief, and this is _not_ a robbery!" Captain Quirke hissed through clenched teeth. "It is an armed lawful withdrawal in the name of the future Patrician of Ankh-Morpork! Now go fetch us the bank's money! Snap to it!"

Mr. Bent took several steps back which carried him an astonishing distance even given his large feet, before shaking his head sadly.

"Not a member of the Guild, not a member of the Guild?" he scolded. "We shall have to see what Mr. Boggis says about that! As for snapping to it . . . ." Mr. Bent flicked his fingers with a sound that echoed like a party snapper in the huge chamber and suddenly the bank counters sprouted clerks, all armed with hoops, juggling clubs and buckets. The clerks threw these objects not at Captain Quirke or the New Guard, but at Mr. Bent, who intercepted the projectiles and redirected them with devastating effect. Three of the New Guard went down in one clip, stunned by the juggling clubs, while three others flailed about blindly and nicked each other with their swords as buckets landed over their heads. Quirke himself was tripped up by a hoop and had to watch from the floor as Mr. Bent danced away toward a corner of the lobby where a recessed curtain had sprouted a ladder.

At least one of the New Guard kept to his feet and his wits better than his compatriots and ran for the bank's entrance. He had just enough time to open one of the doors and signal to other members of the New Guard still outside before being taken down by the dwarf City Watch officer at the entrance. Ten more members of the New Guard dashed across the street toward them, weapons drawn, as the Watchman blew on a whistle and ducked inside the bank. The bank's doors were not yet shut, locked and bolted before the new New Guards reached it and forced their way in. The Watch officer was no match for ten armed intruders by himself, but it quickly became apparent he wasn't by himself. Mrs. Drapes-Bent, the senior clerk who was also the chief cashier's wife, led some of her staff in tossing weighted nets down onto the intruders from a scaffold that had been erected inside the foyer. The Watchman had prepared for this – the second wave of bank invaders had not, and seven went down in a tangle. Three more rushed into the lobby to be greeted by the sight of their commanding officer struggling to get his neck out of a ladder that had trapped him and two other New Guards.

"Get the clown!" Captain Quirke yelled as his troops paused, dumbfounded, just long enough for two of them to be smacked in the face by tin plates full of shaving cream hurled by Mr. Bent. The chief cashier was forced to take more evasive maneuvers as at least two unimpeded foes rushed him and two more got the buckets off their heads and resumed their attack. Any contest between a seltzer-squirting boutonniere and crossbows is lopsided to say the least, even if Mr. Bent's aim was better, so he dodged, weaved and finally ran through a door marked "Employees Only" to escape his assailants. The New Guards, having learned nothing, followed him.

In the foyer, netting was now the least of the would-be robbers' troubles. Seven hapless New Guards found themselves easy targets for what appeared – at first - to be buckets of whitewash, before the bank Igor's special modifications to the contents made themselves felt. The liquid hardened instantly, leaving seven rope-covered, militaristic statues trapped within its crust.

"I thuppose we thould thee if they can thtill breathe," Igor commented as he climbed down from the foyer scaffold to inspect his handiwork.

"Must we?" Mrs. Drapes-Bent asked, fixing the whitewash statues with a hard stare before turning a more concerned gaze toward the lobby. At least thirteen of the invaders had made it inside.

"Oh, don't worry, Mithith Bent," Igor said, patting her hand with one of his spare ones. "I am thure your huthband will be perfectly thafe. And I'm thure our unwelcome guethtth will not be."

[-]

Whatever the 'unwelcome guests' expected in a bank, it wasn't the confusion of corridors and stairways and side rooms that seemed to lead to everything except the riches they desired. They also didn't expect the inviting smell of sticky toffee pudding that issued from one moneyless and Mr. Bent-less quarter. Such a scent would have to be investigated. Sword readied, the frontmost of the New Guards opened a door and saw one of the last things a person could hope to find inside a bank – a fully appointed chef's kitchen with a fully appointed chef standing in it. The tocque-topped pudding preparer did not seem alarmed by the intruders, but turned to face them placidly, as if expecting something. Arrayed on the counter in front of him was a very large and sharp-looking assortment of kitchen knives. But the most eye-catching object in the room was a crude, large sign that hung down from the ceiling, so recently made that the paint on it still looked wet. In spite of the message on it, the New Guardsman in front just couldn't resist the urge to read it aloud to his partners, who were also peering in.

"Do Not Say Garlic! Garlic! Gar-"

[-]

Hubert Turvy was still fretting over the inexplicable malfunction of the Glooper when he heard the sound of visitors scrabbling down the stairs to his domain. Years of working in the basement of the Royal Bank had made him familiar with the footstep sounds of those who normally came down there.1 These were unfamiliar treads, so Hubert went over to the special set of levers Igor had prepared in case it was, indeed, time to repel all boarders. If his visitors were any of those men who had hurt poor, nice Mr. Lipwig, Hubert would be more than glad to let them suffer his levers as they'd already pushed his buttons.

"This way to the vault, lads!" An imperious voice yelled as its owner rounded a curve under the arches. A greying, red-faced man of soldierly bearing held a sword out in front of him, but was so busy looking back at whoever was following that he almost walked right into Hubert's raincoat stand before noticing it – and into Hubert.

"Actually, the vault is in the other-" Hubert began helpfully before he found the tip of the sword pressed against the tip of his nose.

"You there!" The man shouted at him. "Get me the money!"

At this close proximity, Hubert caught the faint whiff of rotten eggs that he'd been warned always came from a certain individual. Yes, this situation definitely called for some leverage.

"Well?" Captain Quirke demanded. A pair of his non-uniformed troops rushed in behind him.

"Just wait right there," Hubert nodded, "and I'll get you more money than you've ever seen before." Hubert pulled the lever and Quirke and his men vanished through the trap door beneath them in a chorus of screams. Igor had worked very hard at arranging those screams. He'd said it would lend the proper atmosphere to the occasion. Hubert scratched his head as something nagged at his memory - something else he was supposed to do after pulling the lever. He checked the set of instructions Igor had given him. Oh, yes.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat and stared down through the trap door at the tunnel underneath. "Ha ah . . . ha ha . . HA HA **HAA HAA HAA**!"

[-]

"An impressive collection of statues, gentlemen and women," Moist grinned, surveying the encased New Guards in the Royal Bank foyer. "Although I'm afraid, Constable Magnusson, the Watch may have a difficult time getting them down to the station in this condition."

"Oh no, Thir," the bank's Igor interrupted. "I have a thpecial tholvent prepared which can be uthed to releathe them ath thoon ath the Watch comes to pick them up. With almotht no thide effectth."

"Er, side effects?" Moist asked. With Igors, it paid to be careful anytime the word 'almotht' came up.

"We-ell . . . ." Igor said, "they'll be an interethting thade of purple for the next few dayth, and one or two of them may neigh like a horthe for theveral monthth. But if you wanted to leave me one of them ath a thpecimin . . . ."

Several of the statues whimpered in terror, although one of the whimpers sounded suspiciously like a whinny.

"Ah, no, Igor, I don't think that will be necessary. But . . . well done! The others were all caught as well? Nobody hurt?"

The bank's regular customers had been brought out of hiding as soon as Constable Magnusson sounded the all clear with another set of pipe taps on the bank's front columns. From their places of concealment they had thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle of live entertainment. But not all the captured New Guards had escaped with only 'thide effects.' Though there were no fatalities, Aimsbury's kitchen knives had caused a few flesh wounds and at least one of the intruders had been found curled up in a fetal position, with very wet knickers and mumbling something about lollipops. Moist didn't want to know how Igor had arranged _that_. But all in all it wasn't a bad wrap up, considering the New Guards' hostile intent, and wrap up was an apt term for what had happened to Captain Quirke.

"Our mathterpiethe!" Igor beamed as he and Hubert showed off the captain of the New Guards down in the cellar. Quirke had wanted money, and now he was covered in it, or more precisely in a paper mâché mixture of old, decrepit, shredded bank notes and more of Igor's special whitewash. He and the two guardsmen who had been with him were very strange looking sculptures, frozen stiff in a moment of terror and surprise after their drop through the trap door. All three figures made moaning sounds as voices approached them and the one at the front, still holding its money-crusted sword, fainted outright when Igor and Moist came into its view.

"So this is the great Captain Quirke, is it?" Moist circled around the rigid ringleader before motioning for Hubert and Igor to follow him into the Glooper chamber and out of earshot of the living statues.

"We could do something _really_ interesting to him if you like, Mr. Lipwig," Hubert said with an enthusiasm that made Moist wince. "Maybe we could exchange _his_ brain with a turnip's this time!"

"According to Commander Vimes, that wouldn't be much of an improvement. Certainly not for the turnip." Moist shook his head. "No, boys, I'm afraid we're going to have to let him go."

"Let him go?" Hubert cried in dismay. "But . . . after what they did to you? And what they just tried to do to the bank?"

"Oh, we'll send the rest of Quirke's crew to the lockup," Moist reassured him. "But Vimes thinks that Quirke is so incompetent as a leader he's a better weapon for us when he's on the enemy's side."

"It ithn't right, though," Igor grumbled, deprived of yet another test subject, even if he wasn't willing to break the Code. "Letting one of them go free, and you thtill all bruithed like that."

"Don't worry about me, Igor – it looks worse than it feels, honestly!" Moist said. He'd already begun altering his daily makeup job to simulate normal healing. "Besides," Moist's cosmetically blackened eyes twinkled, "Vimes said we had to release him from our custody. He never said how we had to do it!"

[* * * *]

Miss Iodine Maccalariat frowned as she and Miss Hortense Grubner ascended the steps of the entryway to the Ankh-Morpork League of Decency meeting hall. All the members of the League prided themselves on cleanliness, of course, but tonight an unpleasant smell hovered about the place. Worse, the floor of the hallway was filthy with little crumbs of a powdery substance and a few bits of paper debris. Miss Grubner reached down and picked up one of the bits of paper with a gloved hand, holding it out for Miss Maccalariat's inspection. It was a tiny, stained section of a five dollar bill. Miss Grubner and Miss Maccalariat barely had time to examine it before the other ladies came in right behind them. As a group, the League members entered the main meeting room and saw the most affronting sight of all.

A man-sized paper mâché figure had been erected in the center of the room, adorned in leather and silk undergarments of the sort found _most_ objectionable and surrounded by . . . _objects_ . . . which were even more objectionable. Gasps of outrage echoed all around. Horrified, fascinated gazes took in the leather straps, the buckles, the fishnet stockings, the feathered mask. And clasped in one hand, the vulgar statue held what appeared to be the hilt of a sword, but the blade had been snapped off and in its place was something that was definitely _not_ an old rubber bone.

"Who would _dare_?" Miss Maccalariat seethed.

Miss Hortense Grubner noticed a string with a card attached hanging from the ceiling above the sculpture and, wanting to be helpful again, took hold of it. She did not notice that the string was also attached to a bucket of solvent hanging from the rafters. The paper mâché figure chose that moment to moan . . . .

[* * * *]

1 At least, of only those who went into the basement once the arrow-shaped post labeled "This way to the fornication!" placed by an architectural enthusiast had been removed.


	31. Mayhem, Magic and Mentions

"They're coming."

Sacharissa Cripslock repressed a shudder at the words she'd been expecting to hear sooner or later. She just wished sooner or later hadn't morphed into 'now.' The _Ankh-Morpork Times_ already had a lead story to go with after the foiled attempt at a robbery in the Royal Bank. She'd rather write the news than be in it again.

"Are we ready?" she asked.

"I sure hope so." William de Worde might have shared her sentiments of trepidation, but if so he was trying not to show it. No one – not even a private army – was going to keep him from publishing the truth. Unfortunately, the truth was that three City Watch constables, one golem and a handful of newspaper staff weren't a lot to stop a private army with. "Otto's plan had better work."

"Do Not Worry," Gladys told them. "Mr. Lipwig Gave Me A Book Of Helpful Suggestions For Dealing With This Sort Of Situation. It Is Very Instructive."

Now it was William de Worde's turn to repress a shudder. He wasn't sure which of the books in her handbag Gladys was referring to – he'd seen copies of both _Pride and Extreme Prejudice_ and _The Klatchian Guide to Self Defence for Proper Ladies_ in there. He'd also seen just how strong the golem was when she'd lifted Gunilla and Boddony's printing press to sweep underneath it. With Gladys still on loan from the Post Office and the members of the Uberwald Temperence League up on the rooftop, the next several minutes were going to be . . . _interesting_.

"Maybe we should feel sorry for whoever's about to try and break in," he said.

[* * * *]

Rincewind had always known there were at least a thousand different ways he could die. He'd pictured, dreaded (or very nearly experienced) most of them – stabbing, hanging, beheading, burning, defenestration, volcanoes, games of foot-the-ball . . . . So it wasn't fair that he found himself now drowning in banana frosting. He hadn't figured on that demise _at all_. What sort of death was this for a wizzard? And the worst part was, he couldn't run from it because he'd already run straight into it.

"Oo . . . k?"

Rincewind heard the Librarian's muffled voice and started sinking down in icing sugar for the third time when he felt a powerful tug on his tattered red robe and suddenly his head was free again.

"Heeeyeugghh!" he gasped, spitting and snorting out bits of frosting to breathe in the banana-scented air. Several more tugs later, his fellow Academicals and the Luggage had him clear of the catastrophic confection and able to move his arms and legs again.

"You all right there, man?" Professor Macarona clapped Rincewind on the back as he tried to sit up. "For a moment we were afraid you'd gone to your just desserts!"

"Wha' hoppen?" Rincewind coughed, still trying to clear his throat.

"We were chasing one of those malicious miscreants," Professor Hix spat, wiping his hands on Professor Macarona's cload, "when you got surrounded by this glop!"

"Ook."

"Yes," Rincewind mumbled. He got that part. That part was obvious. What he couldn't figure out was where all the glop had come from . . . .

[-]

Smalldab held Auntie Ree's wooden spoon in his fist as if it was a cobra that might bite if he let go. The spoon had done something – he was sure of it. He'd pointed it backwards at the wizards chasing him and now, all of a sudden, they weren't still chasing him. Then he noticed the glow coming from the spoon that he hadn't noticed before – as if he didn't have problems enough! He'd heard Mam refer to her sister as an old witch before, but he hadn't thought she was serious. If Auntie Ree _was_ a witch and he'd just stolen her magic wand, well . . . he'd be better off facing the magic monkey or orange-whatever-it-was than facing her again. What the hell was he going to do now? Making himself the terror of the streets was getting far too scary!

"Eh!"

Smalldab jumped nearly his own height into the air as Three Pie Mikky nudged him on the shoulder from out of the shadows. The wooden spoon did not leave his hand, but the glowing grew stronger for a moment and the air briefly smelled like cherries.

"S'at?" Three Pie said, pointing to the spoon.1

"It's my Auntie Ree's magic wand and I think I stole it!"2

"Ooh! Magic wand!" Oozy Walters shouted, coming out from behind Three Pie Mikky and causing Smalldab to jump again. "Let me try!" He reached for the spoon as a chocolate blancmange materialized in midair and plopped onto his head. "Oi!"

The glow disappeared as soon as Oozy took the spoon out of Smalldab's hands. Oozy tried waving and pointing it in several directions while Smalldab and Three Pie ducked for cover, but nothing happened. Three Pie grabbed the spoon next with no better result before casting it aside in disgust.

"S'not magic."

But the glow reappeared when Smalldab tentatively reached for it again, and faded as soon as he withdrew his startled fingers.

"It _is_ magic!" Oozy giggled, clapping Smalldab on the back. "Go on! Pick it up again then." When Smalldab tried to back away, Oozy forced his arm down onto the spoon and giggled even more as it began shining again. "Looks like it only works for you."

Smalldab picked up the wooden spoon this time as if it was a pair of dirty but potentially violent undershorts while his fellow Smuts looked on in envy.

"Must be cos' of I'm related to her or somethin'" he muttered. "But I don't want no magic wand!"

"Why not? It's got power!" Oozy rubbed his hands together. "That means we've got power!"

"I don't even know how to use it!" Smalldab wailed as some candied plums began rolling around on the ground near his feet. "I think I should just drop it back at Aunt Ree's."

"Nah, nah! We've just got to figger out the right magic words."

"An' how're we gonner do that?" Three Pie snorted.

"The wizards've been following us, right?" Oozy said. "So instead, maybe we follow them, sneaky-like, and when they cast a spell we write the words down so Smally can use 'em with the wand."

"Are you crazy?" Smalldab gaped.

"Yer," Three Pie added. "Have t'know how to read an all t'do that."

"Oh, I can do that part," Oozy waved their concerns away. "But I ain't follering that monkey one – all 'e says is Oops anyway!"

"We don't want him coming at us again." Smalldab shuddered. "An' not the one with the skull ring neither. He's prolly a mean bloke!"

"That leaves the one with the foreign look and the one in the red with the hat what says Wizzard on it," Oozy on it. "I'm for him – at least he labels himself. Makes it easy."

Smalldab tried to shake his head at all this, but the rest of him was already shivering so hard it had the effect of making him look like he was having a small earthquake under his chin. The spoon glowed as a large glob of unbaked meringue plopped onto his nose – or was it a pie smut? Oozy slapped him on the back again, and assured him that they were on their way and they'd all soon be getting what they had coming to them.

"'at's what I'm 'fraid of."

[* * * *]

Commander Sir Samuel Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch was looking very official and not particularly pleased when Moist von Lipwig strolled into his office at Pseudopolis Yard as summoned.

"Sit," Vimes growled, looking up from the piles of papers covering his desk.

Moist sat.

"I'm not under arrest again, am I?" he asked.

Vimes shook his head and sat back himself with a weary frown, crossing his arms in a further gesture of displeasure.

"As I've said once before, there isn't even a word for what you are, Lipwig." Vimes sighed. "I thought we had an agreement that Quirke was to be let go so he could obligingly run back to his slimeball boss and cause a few more 'own goals' for Lord Snike. Maybe even lead us to their hideout."

"He did run, didn't he?"

"Oh, he ran all right," Vimes scowled. "Straight into the custody of Constable Visit, who was scheduled to be the guest lecturer at last night's meeting of the Ankh-Morpork League of Decency. And wasn't Quirke wearing the most _interesting_ outfit when he did - and holding the most interesting objects too! So Quirke's been arrested of course. Visit charged him with, let's see," Vimes read off a list from one of the sheets in front of him, "Public Indecency, Disorderly Behavior, Resisting Arrest, Breaking and Entering, Assault, Attempted Robbery Without a Thieves' Guild License, Aiding and Abetting a Public Disturbance and, oh, yes, Treason. In that order."

Now it was Moist's turn to frown, or at least try to.

"The good constable has his priorities, doesn't he?"

"Quirke's bright purple and braying like a donkey too." Vimes slapped a palm down on the list. "Damn it, Lipwig! The worst part is I can't even have the luxury to find this funny! D'you know how hard it's going to be to arrange for Quirke's accidental escape now? Especially with Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs out of town? My best men for this sort of thing."

Moist had wondered sometimes why Vimes kept the cowardly and proudly incompetent Colon and Nobbs on his force. Now he knew. They had their uses, just like Stanley Howler at the Post Office.

"Sorry!" Moist protested. "But I couldn't just let him walk out of the bank free as a bird right after he tried to rob it. Believe me, what we did to him wasn't nearly as bad as what some of my staff _wanted_ to do to him." Moist didn't have to fake a note of sincerity on that score – as angry as he had been at Quirke, some of Igor's suggestions didn't even bear thinking about unless, of course, you were another Igor.

"Hrrmmphh! I suppose," Vimes admitted grudgingly. "Bad enough what happened to the others."

"You mean the purple skin and horsey sounds? Igor says that's supposed to wear off in a few weeks. Or months." _Probably, anyway_ , he added to himself.

Vimes shook his head.

"I meant the Unmentionables who tried to take over the _Ankh-Morpork Times_ building again. Poor bastards."

"Ohhh . . . kay," Moist said. "Since when are we supposed to feel sorry for them?"

"Since Otto got the idea of asking the Ankh-Morpork League of Temperance to help defend the building – and maybe teach the Unmentionables a thing or two about showing respect for vampires in the future."

"The black ribboners? But they're all . . . well . . . not vegetarian, exactly, but . . . ."

"Harmless?" Vimes snorted. "No vampire is ever harmless, whether they drink blood or not. They're fast, they're strong, they're almost impossible to kill, and most of 'em have hundreds of years of experience in just about everything a person is capable of learning, combat-wise. What's more, Snike's folk thought they'd gotten rid of the only vampire on the premises a few days ago, so they didn't come prepared to deal with more. From the reports I've gotten back, the battle was short and not pretty. At least the _Times_ staff is okay."

"And Gladys?"

"Is fine and not under arrest either."

"Oh! Um . . . good, good," Moist mumbled. "Er . . . should she be?"

"Since it was technically self-defense, no," Vimes said. "However, I'd have a word with whoever loaned her that _Tough Love Through Kickboxing Therapy_ book if I were you." Vimes shuffled his papers again. "She didn't kill any of them, but some of the bastards are going to be in full body casts for a long, long time. Gave Dr. Lawn's residents a whole new world of experience with resetting compound fractures, I understand. The worst were the cocoa injuries though."

"Cocoa injuries?"

Vimes nodded.

"The black ribboners are still a little old fashioned in their thinking – they've been through a few sieges over the centuries. But this is Ankh-Morpork – people in this city don't dump cauldrons of boiling oil from the rooftops anymore, oil being a lot more expensive here than it is in Uberwald. So the ribboners went with the materials they have on hand and dumped cauldrons of boiling hot cocoa on the enemy instead and started singing songs around the harmonium. Beats the heck out of me how they got a harmonium on the roof of the _Times_ , but I think we can safely say Snike's forces, or whatever's left of 'em, won't be eager to oppress the press again right away."

Moist tried to imagine the scene outside the _Times_ building and was thankful he couldn't.

"Sounds messy," he grimaced. "But I suppose that means things are looking up for our side."

"In more ways than one." Vimes allowed a thin smile to cross his craggy features. "Snike must be feeling the pinch with his shipments from Zlobenia stopping or his guards wouldn't have tried to rob the Royal Bank. Chrysoprase and his buddies dug up more inside information than I would have thought possible too. I think I know why you were targeted now."

"Oh?" Moist tried to keep his voice level as he craned his neck to get a look at the papers Vimes had been shuffling through. Most of them seemed to be lists of names in different handscripts, some with notes in the margins.

"You aren't going to like it," Vimes told him. "Snike didn't really know or care who you were when he picked you. He was looking for someone to make an example of, someone who'd be recognizable that he thought he could get away with destroying. He apparently got a lot of suggestions for different targets from different people. Lord Selachii and Lord Venturi suggested each other, of course, and there were some other novel recommendations."

"So I see!" Moist exclaimed, snatching up one of the lists. "My, my - Dotsie and Sadie! However do you suppose anyone thought Snike's henchmen could get ahold of _them_? And won't Mr. Boggis and Lord Downey be pleased that others were thinking of them too?" Moist shook his head. "I got the most suggestions, did I?"

"No, although you and I both got our share. You're still as popular as ever with the Lavish family, by the way. But Snike didn't do his research very carefully. He didn't know you were married to the head of the Grand Trunk Semaphore Company _and_ the Golem Trust. He evidently thought you were just a puppet of Vetinari's who appears in the papers a lot – not someone who actually has the entire Post Office, Royal Bank, Mint and Railway backing him up." Vimes pulled a particular sheet of paper out from the rest and handed it to Moist. "Like I said, you aren't going to like it."

Moist saw his own name circled at the top of this list and read the small, neat handwriting next to it. The notes were hardly flattering.

"Peasant. Not guild. Not aristocrat. Foreigner with a peculiar sounding name. Best known for rescuing a cat from a burning building and possibly stealing all the gold from the Royal Bank. Has bad taste in clothing." Moist threw the sheet of paper down in disgust. "Vimes! I do _not_ have bad taste in clothing!" He banged a fist down on the offending document. "And I didn't steal any gold – at least, not _that_ gold," he added as an afterthought.

"No, but you did rescue a cat from a burning building." Vimes tugged the sheet of paper back from under Moist's hand and placed it back among the others. "We're just lucky Snike underestimated everything, and didn't figure on the reaction he'd get when he chose you."

"Yes. Lucky me."

"I didn't mean it that way." All traces of a grin disappeared from Vimes' face. "You know that. But if we have to be dealing with a dangerous enemy, I'd rather it be an incompetent and careless one."

Moist nodded.

"Careless, anyway. But incompetent people with incompetent ideas and lots of resources to act on them can cause the worst disasters. Speaking of resources, how did our Mr. Chrysoprase get his hands on these if they're Snike's original lists? That must have taken one hell of an inside source."

Vimes shuffled all the lists together in one big pile and locked them in his desk drawer.

"I'm not sure, but I can make a good guess at who his inside man is – if you want to call zombie lawyers men."

"Mr. Slant, really?" Moist said. "I always thought he preferred _being_ the threatening situation rather than placing himself in one."

"It's only speculation," Vimes shrugged. "But he does have a knack for getting his fingers in every possible pie – especially the shady kind – and pulling them back out intact. We might never know for sure."

Moist glanced over now at the drawer containing the lists.

"Well Mr. Snike has plenty of influential connections too, if that many people knew about his plans in advance and were offering suggestions."

"And he was pulling it all together while we had our backs turned during the whole tossup in Bonk." The Watch Commander slumped wearily back in his chair. "What a mess. Too much time spent watching foreign affairs and not enough time spent watching our own."

"It's not as if any of us had a choice, remember?" Moist pointed out. "The grags were burning the Clacks towers, murdering our citizens. They brought the fight to us."

"That doesn't make me feel any better about letting this one get past me. I dropped the ball and now someone's dropped Vetinari too."

"Well that was Snike and his folks, wasn't it?"

"Maybe not. Probably not." Vimes grimaced. "According to Chrysoprase's inside source, Snike was caught as off-guard as the rest of us by what happened to Vetinari. That's why they've been so amateurish with their coup plan. They weren't done rehearsing yet."

"So there might be _another_ person trying to take over the city that we don't even know about yet?" Moist gaped at him.

"Makes your day, doesn't it?" Vimes sighed. "I know it's made mine. Straightening all this out is going to take a mind more devious than mine – maybe even more devious than yours, and the only one of those I know of isn't working at all at the moment, at least as far as anyone can tell. I never thought I'd hear myself saying this, but . . . ." He hesitated before he could bring himself to speak again.

"We need Vetinari."

[* * * *]

1 Sadly, one cannot infer from this that the individual in question was referring to the glow and not the spoon. It is generally considered common knowledge in Ankh-Morpork that there is no such a thing as common knowledge in Ankh-Morpork owing to the cultural and ethnic diversity and differing degrees of education among its citizens. It would be very judgmental to expect a non-dwarf to know what a 'krek'm'shug'lrk' at the dinner table was, for example.

2 On the other hand, it is not entirely judgmental to think that some individuals are simply thick as the river Ankh.


	32. Fighting

"That's it, is it?" Susan growled, so annoyed that she slipped into the VOICE. "YOU THINK YOU'RE MR. ESSENTIAL, DON'T YOU?"

Vetinari refused to be intimidated, at least visibly. She had been glaring at him all the way as they'd withdrawn themselves from close proximity to the trapped Horsemen to consider their next move.

"Your grandfather did, or I wouldn't be here." Vetinari attempted to give her the EYEBROW. "Mind you, I did try arguing the point with him." He drew the frozen lifetimer out of his robe and held it up once more. "It has something to do with this, and with what your grandfather called quantum. Apparently I don't play by the rules, and here I've thought I always did, albeit my own rules."

"That makes YOU a match for the AUDITORS?" Susan said, attempting to rein in her temper.

"By myself, no. We all have parts to play, though I'm not even sure what my role is, other than liaison to a wolficidal feline."

"Did someone mention parts? Roles?" 'After' Edwards enthused, floating up to the pair in blissful ignorance of the emotional stormclouds gathering.

Susan exhaled loudly and stomped off to have a word with Lu-Tze instead.

"Was it something I said?" the ghost asked.

"No," Vetinari replied. "People who are used to being in charge seldom get along with each other. Lady Margolotta is a rare diplomatic exception. But if the Auditors are spying on any of us right now, it is Miss Susan – and possibly me – they will be watching the closest, so the less said between us about plans the better. I know they fear the others, but I trust Kaos and Albert have their little ways of foiling the enemy. I myself do not."

"So you are letting her know you don't trust her, so that she feels she can't trust you either?" 'After' Edwards shook his semi-translucent shade of a head. "I am a mere stage player who has played leaders of men, but I fail to see how this can help us."

"Perhaps it won't," Vetinari conceded. "But I've spent most of my life using uncertainty as a tool. I have to hope it will work against the Auditors as well."

The ghost stared down at him with a dubious expression.

"You're not really what one calls a mixer, are you?"

Vetinari looked at the unmoving streams of blue and black sand in his lifetimer with a wry expression.

"Apparently not."

[-]

"For is it not written, 'why break a man's kneecaps when you can mess with his mind?'" Lu-Tze smiled as he swept away some of the snow on the dark plain.

"Mrs. Marietta Cosmopolite never said that!" Susan goggled as the thin, amiable Sweeper went about his mundane task.

"She did," Lu-Tze said. "Nowhere is it written that she was the first to say this, but it is part of the Way."

"Well I don't need Vetinari messing with _my_ mind," she grumbled.

Lu-Tze halted and gave her one of those placid, tranquil expressions that made her want to set her entire classroom on him, preferably after their post-lunch sugar rush. He leaned over and picked something up from the ground of the now-frozen plain which he held out to her.

"We must be like the snowflake," he said.

 _Melted and useless?_ She almost asked. But as she looked in the palm of his hand what she saw was a single snowflake, perfectly detailed, symmetrical and intact, showing no signs of melting.

"You see? We can be cold, and we each have our own sharp edges, but when we combine," Lu-Tze let the snowflake flutter back down into the drift on the ground, "we become a more formidable force than we each are by ourselves."

"I didn't come over here to get a lecture," she said.

"What one gives, one occasionally gets back – like fruitcake." Lu-Tze winked genially. "May I suggest we get together and discuss again what our next action should be?"

With no one and nothing else to see on the snowy plain they had started coalescing back into a tighter group whether they intended to or not. Vetinari kept himself at a diplomatic distance from Susan while 'After' Edwards bobbed around everyone. But it was clear they remained solitary individuals rather than a cohesive team.

"Oh dear, oh dear," the ghost muttered to no one in particular. "Whatever can we do?"

 _Die._

A disembodied voice said in all their heads a moment before the snowy surface of the dark plain began to rupture and crack. Binky reared up and hovered above the holes. Greebo yowled and attempted to jump to safety on Vetinari's shoulders1 as a fissure opened up where he'd been crouched. But Vetinari had been thrown off balance by the cracking underneath him and both went down in a heap, half over the precipice. As his upper body struck what was left of a solid surface, Vetinari's lifetimer came out of his robe pocket and began sliding toward another crevice that was forming. Vetinari grabbed at it, but the timer rolled away from his fingertips and balanced on the edge of a new cliff.

 _Evidently you will be the first to die._

A grey Auditor materialized above Vetinari and the teetering hourglass.

"NOT WITHOUT MY HELP."

Before the Auditor could move any closer to the lifetimer, Susan blocked its path with her Sword.

"IF IT'S REALLY DEATH YOU'RE SEEKING . . . ."

The Auditor retreated as the blade that can cut through anything sliced the space where it had been.

 _Why would You interfere to save him? You are only postponing the inevitable._

The Auditor moved and tried to angle its way toward the tilting hourglass before drawing back as Susan slashed with the Sword once more.

"Am I?" She said, allowing her audience a dangerous, skeletal grin. "You haven't won yet!"

 _Not yet. But We will soon. He is hardly worth it._

As the Auditor's words filled all their heads, the broken, jagged plain quaked underfoot again. Vetinari's lifetimer began to tip back onto the more solid part of the surface but Susan, overbalanced already, began to lose her footing. Waiting for just such an opportunity, the Auditor transformed itself into a snarling wolf shape while her arms and the Sword flailed. It didn't transform all the way. Part of it remained robe-covered and vaguely humanoid as its furry paw-hands reached out to grab the Sword's hilt – and its wielder.

 _You first then._

Susan felt a monstrous, manic strength grip her wrist and pull her forward. One foot was dragged over the edge of the black plain onto empty air and as she started to fall, the Sword came within the Auditor's grasp.

" ***No!*"**

A voice that had over-dramatized the word in a hundred different plays on a hundred different stages shouted it out as never before and the ghost of 'After' Edwards lunged between Susan and the Auditor. He was opaque in that moment, arms raised in full boo position and face contorted with rage. It was his best performance ever. The Auditor drew back enough to release its grip suddenly and disappear. Susan fell back onto solid plain surface. But the Sword, shaken loose by her assailant, sliced its way through the ghost before clattering beside her. 'After' Edwards was cut neatly in half.

"Oh dear," the ghost gasped, staring down at its detached ectoplasm. "I guess I really am dead after all." Then, like the Auditor, both halves of 'After' Edwards vanished, leaving nothing behind. Susan did not have to be told what had happened to him. She always knew.

Vetinari, climbing back up to the flat surface with Greebo still attached to his shoulders, had seen it happen and saw the look on Susan's face. He didn't need to ask the question but she answered it anyway.

"Yes. All the way this time."

Lu-Tze, Albert and the Death of Rats stood up from where they'd been caught off guard by the fracturing of the seemingly eternal plain. Lu-Tze and Albert both frowned, but Kaos, floating like Binky just above the surface, looked on the shattered area with an almost manic glee.

"Little buggers have really broken all the Rules this time!" he grinned. "Who'd have figured?"

"It's nothing to be happy about," Susan told him. "If they destroy everything, it's so they can put their idea of an even more orderly something in its place – a something that won't have any room for you either."

Kaos shrugged.

"I came first and I'll be last," he said. "That's the way it works."

"Yes, and how long will your wait be?" Vetinari asked, putting away his lifetimer. "How long will you get to enjoy the Auditors' lifeless universe of perfect order before it breaks down? How many hundreds of thousands or millions of years of rule-abiding, unchaotic blankness without a single break in the monotony? Without a single customer for your dairy products? Without anyone or anything at all to interact with except Auditors? Will you enjoy that?"

Kaos' smile faded faster than a moral qualm in the Shades.

"Of course, if you'd care to join the side of the predictable, orderly and hidebound winners, I can see where . . . ." Vetinari continued but broke off as he saw Kaos' scowl.

"I'm not for the Auditors!"

Kaos gestured and tapped at the surface of the dark plain with the tip of his own weapon. Where cracks had appeared, they filled up with milk-white ice, forming a solid, even surface once more with fractal iridescence. Deed accomplished, the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse stormed off in a direction back toward where the other Four remained suspended by magic. Susan and the others watched him stomp away, and she let out a breath she'd been holding in.

"You're pretty slick at manipulating others, aren't you?" She said to Vetinari.

"I prefer to think of it as helping others to manipulate themselves. A facilitator, if you will." He looked not at her, but at Kaos' receding figure. "Following him might not be a bad idea."

"Why? Because you need him for this secret Master Plan of yours?"

"That, yes. And because we're missing something."

Albert snuffled his drippy nose and glared at Vetinari.

"Like what? It's not as if I didn't try, you know," the Wizard muttered. "Tried every spell I could think of, and a few I shouldn't have thought of ever again. Nothing worked on that book."

"Yet." Vetinari added. "We've made the Auditors nervous, that much is clear. Why else try to kill us when we get too close to Kaos' partners or that book? As they've said, Eternity appears to be on their side. They could just wait us out to get what they want, wait out our brief mortality. But instead, they're willing to throw their own existences away in vast numbers with these attacks because they think we can stop them somehow. Ergo, we _can_ stop them. I don't know what it is we've overlooked, but I think we should find out why they don't want us near that spot by the Horsemen."

"Suit yourself," Albert shrugged, but he started walking after Kaos without waiting for Vetinari to take the lead. Lu-Tze nodded, with unknowable thoughts scampering behind his eyes, and did the same, sweeping as he went.

In fact, the man who had suggested the course of action was the last to follow it. Susan looked back at Vetinari as he gave one final, lingering glance at the place where the ghost of 'After' Edwards had disappeared.

"Coming?" she asked in her usual impatient fashion. "He isn't going to return again."

Vetinari nodded and caught up to her.

"He died saving you."

"No," she corrected him. "He'd been murdered after walking in on a backstage robber six months ago. He was already dead. He just figured that out at last, so he's gone - finished the journey."

"And you don't care?"

He scrutinized her to see if he could get any sort of reading off her face as he had done so many thousands of times with others, but when he saw her eyes, dark and vast, he got a sudden sense of dizziness, as if Death had put His hand on Vetinari's shoulder once more. Then, just as quickly, the dizziness was gone.

"I can't mourn, you know," she said quietly. "Not even when my parents died. I accept it. It's the nature of what I am."

"And what you try not to be," he realized aloud.

She didn't answer, but only turned her back on him and walked away in the direction of the others. Vetinari followed, awake to the possibility that there was someone who had even more problems to deal with than himself.

[* * * *]

1 Which is by no means the same thing as safety _for_ the shoulders in question, as any cat-owned person can tell you.


	33. Little Boy Lost

"Missing? How can he be missing?" Vimes tried to keep the level of his voice down below a shout, but his volume was rising with his gorge. "Why the hell wasn't Purity watching him?"

"She thought he was taking a nap, Sam, and she didn't want to wake him up so she went to tend to something else." Sybil was doing a better job at controlling herself than Vimes, but underneath her Ramkin demeanor she'd gone white as a sheet. "It's not as if she'd expect him to wander off by himself. He's always such a good boy."

 _Hah!_ Vimes thought. I _was always_ such _a good boy – when Mum was watching, that is!_ Naps can be faked – Vimes knew that a little too well from memory. Young Sam had been so restless, so unhappy with being cooped up . . . and Vimes and Sybil had been so busy, each working to foil Lord Snike's coup attempt in their own way. It's not like that work wasn't critical, but . . . .

 _Please, please,_ Vimes begged, _let it just be that he's a naughty boy who's going to turn up any minute now! Please!_ Because tap dancing up Vimes' spine with icy shoes was the possibility that Young Sam wasn't going to turn up. Not alive or safe anyway. Willikens had sworn that Young Sam hadn't left out the front or back doors of the mansion, and he and the rest of the staff had been combing the whole heap and its grounds for half an hour. They'd been checking the various booby trap areas that Vimes had done his best to childproof and warn his son about too, with no results. Young Sam was nowhere to be found. That meant one of two things. Either Young Sam had found a way to sneak out, or someone or something had found a way to sneak in . . . . An unwelcome memory stirred of dark dwarves with dark intentions tunneling in through the cellar years ago. One of the delvers made it all the way to the nursery before Vimes had . . . .

 _Please let him just be a naughty boy! Please let him be okay! Please!_

But the icy shoes dancing up and down his spine were joined by a pit of spikes forming in his stomach and hot, steely bands of tightness in his limbs. What good was over thirty years' practice on the force at not panicking once you became a parent? Worse, parent to a chip off the old block when you were that block? And when you had cartloads more enemies than your poor old widowed Mum ever did?

"We'll find him," Vimes heard his voice telling Sybil. "We'll find him."

Right. No need to panic yet. Maybe. Sybil never panicked, after all. Wasn't he, Vimes, called Old Stoneface by his officers for a reason? Besides, Young Sam probably had snuck out the way Vimes himself had done as a kid. He'd probably be back any minute, realizing it was past six o'clock and he'd be missed.

Probably.

He saw Sybil nod in agreement. She seemed as composed as ever if you didn't notice the subtle pallor or the rigid set of her cheekbones. Now Vimes knew why he and Sybil didn't lie to each other. They were both so very bad at it.

[* * * *]

"Oi cain't do this! Oi'm telling yewww!" Smalldab was so panicked at what he and his fellow Smuts were attempting that his accent had started changing at random1, not that Three Pie and Oozy were paying him any mind.2 "Ah'll get cau-aught!"

Bite size cannolis cascaded around his ankles, making each step slippery, treacherous and vaguely orange scented. The red-robed wizard had remained oblivious to the Smuts' presence so far, but if Smalldab couldn't learn to control his Aunt's magic wand they'd all be in the chilled dessert soup soon.

"Look, it's simple, right?" Oozy whispered. "All we have to do is create a diversion an' get 'im to say some magic spell words, then I writes 'em down, we see what it does and bango! You'll be able to do it too!"

"But whu-ut are we going tay use as a div-div-ershun?" Smalldab croaked.

Three Pie Mikky hadn't entered the conversation because he was too busy picking pastries up off the ground, cramming them into his mouth as many at a time as he could.

"How 'bout this?" Oozy said, shoving Three Pie out onto the street in front of Rincewind.3 "An' that?" Oozy added, giving Smalldab a heave as well.

As a diversion, it worked – Rincewind noticed the Smuts immediately, and the storm of éclairs that came raining down on them all. He was so diverted he decided to divert himself with all due speed4, yelping in alarm at the sight of Smalldab raising his wooden spoon in his direction. A few seconds later, the red-robed 'wizzard' was nowhere in view, but Oozy Walters was grinning like a maniac as he stood with his pencil and notebook amidst the pile of pastries.

"Are you all nuts?" Smalldab howled. "You could have gotten us frogged!"

"Nah, nah!" Oozy kept smiling. "They don't do that sort'er thing in public anymore, 'cept maybe that monkey-looking one.5 An' I got what we needed."

"Mmphnph hrnnwr?" Three Pie asked.

"You got the magic words?" Smalldab gasped, looking about for Rincewind. "What was it he used? Some sorta invisibility spell?"

"Better!" Oozy laughed. "A speed spell - you should've seen him take off!"

"Mrpphth!" Three Pie mumbled.

"Great." Smalldab shoved the spoon into his back pocket and squinted at the unfamiliar scrawl that was Oozy Walter's handwriting on the pad. "Only how'm I supposed t'know what it says?"

"I'll read it to you," Oozy said. "Then all you gotter do is repeat after me until you've got it down – right?"

Smalldab gulped and nodded, concentration not being his forte. Then his first lesson in real magic words began.

"Okay, it goes like this," Oozy intoned, full of serious importance. "Blah Dee Buh Gair! Noh Tag Ayn!"

[* * * *]

Two hours past six o'clock, Sam Vimes could name at least forty-two different types of fear because he'd felt every one of them that evening. At half past six the City Watch had been put on the case when Young Sam didn't return. Sybil had gone out with two of her best trained and keenest sniffing swamp dragons on leashes. Willikens had volunteered to make the rounds of less savory places that Vimes couldn't even bear to think about. A quick call in at the von Lipwig/Dearheart residence got the Clacks network and an unknown number of golems, goblins and sundry others involved in the hunt. Vimes himself was searching the streets of Ankh-Morpork and no one knew those streets better than Vimes. So where was his boy?

 _Don't think about the worst possibility_ , Vimes ordered himself uselessly. That was the trouble with having a nasty imagination. It came to you when you least wanted it.

"Mr. Vimes," a familiar voice called out to him from far enough away not to get clobbered.

"Captain," Vimes acknowledged, turning to face the formidable figure of Carrot. "Anything yet?"

Carrot Ironfoundersson's face was so difficult to read at times it made even Vimes feel illiterate, but he must have found out something.

 _Not the best news, but maybe not the worst. Please, not the worst._

"A possible clue, Sir – and maybe a complication," Carrot said. "Young Sam went over to play with Tears of the Mushroom yesterday and the day before, according to the household where she's staying. But from what you said, you and Lady Sybil weren't allowing him out?"

"No, damn it." So that was it. The little so-and-so _had_ found a way to sneak out of the mansion and had been doing exactly as he pleased. _I'm going to make sure his life is safe_ , Vimes thought, _and then I'm going to ground him for the rest of it!_ Except . . . . "Where is he then? Did he go over again today?"

Carrot shook his head.

"Not so they've noticed. But he apparently told Tears of the Mushroom he would come, and then he didn't show up. Now they're rather worried about that."

The cold, tight feeling gripped Vimes once more. So Young Sam had set out for his little friend's location, but he hadn't made it . . . . Suddenly the worst possibilities were the likeliest ones. Vimes had so many enemies, and one at the moment with a clearer motive than most . . . . A Snike in the grass whose bolt-hole hadn't been located yet.

"He could still turn up," Captain Carrot pointed out, but with none of the usual brimming optimism in his voice.

"Would you care to take a bet on that?"

Carrot's lack of an answer said everything.

"Right," Vimes muttered. "Angua hasn't been able to pick up anything?"

"Not so far as I know, Sir. But it's a big city and I'm sure she's doing her best." Carrot cleared his throat. "Er, does Young Sam know anything about the current, ah, political situation?"

Vimes shook his head.

"No, Captain, because . . . ." _I was a bloody fool._ Vimes' voice dropped to a whisper. "Because I . . . didn't want to scare him too much . . . ." Why the hell had he thought ignorance was bliss? It wasn't bliss – it was just stupid, stupid ignorance! And now that one mistake might cost him his . . . .

"We'll find him, Mr. Vimes." This time Carrot's tone brooked no argument. _This_ Carrot Ironfoundersson was going to locate Young Sam Vimes if he had to overturn and examine every brick or cobble in the the city to do it.

Could Vimes do any less? Not a chance of that! There was someone he could think of who might know where Snike was hiding out . . . .

[* * * *]

"I'm telling you, the one of them cast a spell at me!" Rincewind shouted. "He's a wizard or something!"

"Ook?"

"My vote is for an or something," Professor Hix drawled. "Honestly, Rincewind, that lot hasn't got even half a mind between them. So how can one of them be a wizard? They probably got their hands on something that just makes you think one of them can cast spells, that's all."

"From what we've seen, magical objects appear to be, um, acting up a bit lately," Professor Macarona added. Even the Unseen Academicals had not been so wrapped up in their Smut hunt not to notice that all the broomsticks and flying carpets in Ankh-Morpork had been taken out of service by order of the Archchancellor. They'd actually been forced to _walk_ all over town. That sort of thing might do for Rincewind, but . . . .

"Ook."

"And they're following me around too! I'm sure of it!"

"Don't you mean you're following them around?" Professor Hix huffed. "We're supposed to be exacting a terrible vengeance you know."

"You can exact your bloody vengeance!" Rincewind yelled. "I'm not paid enough to mess around with wizards! Er . . . ." Even Rincewind realized he was going to have to rephrase that. "Aha, that is to say, I'm not paid at all . . . ."

"I would consider not being turned into a small, helpless mouse a form of payment," Professor Hix told him, "if I were you." He tapped his fingers on his sleeve so that the skull ring flashed in the sunlight.

"Ook eek ook!"

"Oh, all right," Hix sighed. "So where are these magical prodigies now?"

Rincewind wasn't certain – he'd been too busy escaping a hail of glacéed cherries only half an hour earlier. And he'd felt the ground make a strange rumbling underneath him. Odd how that had been happening more and more lately. He wondered what was causing it all . . . .

[* * * *]

"You did what?"

Lord Downey's voice and manner remained calm. He always seemed so calm these days – so unlike the bluff, bold boy Melborn Snike remembered from their school days. But there was something ever so slight in Downey's eyes, or perhaps the way he kept his hands folded together, that suggested the teensiest bit of perturbation. The man wasn't thick though, so Snike couldn't see why he had to explain his latest master stroke all over again. Downey certainly wasn't hard of hearing either.

"Don't you see? The city's as good as mine now! All I have to do is snap my fingers and Vimes will do whatever I want. Jump to his own death even!"

Snike allowed himself a happy moment imagining that scene. But Lord Downey was frowning.

"The city is not yours," Downey corrected him. "I expect it will never be yours. You've lost the Council. They will not make you Patrician now, regardless of this." The head of the Assassins' Guild sat back in his great leather chair and regarded Snike with more of that infuriating calm. "Might I very strongly suggest you let the boy go unharmed and then leave for Zlobenia at once? There is still a chance that Commander Vimes won't tear you limb from limb, but that chance is getting smaller by the minute."

"Leave? I intend to rule this city!"

"Yes," Downey replied. "Many people have intended to rule this city over the years. They have not intended to die in any of the number of interesting ways that they did. Nevertheless . . . . Zlobenia isn't really so bad, is it?"

Melborn Snike sputtered in fury for several seconds before he could speak. This was not how this interview should be going at all.

"I thought you were my friend!"

"Yes, I know. I assure you, I am giving you very sound advice." Lord Downey unfolded his hands and laid them flat on his desk for a moment as if considering something, before reaching over to a yellow candy dish full of peppermints set at one side. "But where are my manners?" He held the dish out to his guest with a faint smile. "Humbug?"

Snike almost moved to strike the dish of candies from Downey's hand when something in his animal brain forced him to recall just who and what sort of individual he was speaking to. Then without another word, he exited Lord Downey's office as quickly as possible the way he had come and didn't look back until he heard the door slam behind him.

[* * * *]

1 This terrible disease, Accentosis, primarily affects actors, of course, but Smalldab was having no trouble acting scared. This is a common sense state when hunting for a wizard, if one assumes that common sense can have anything at all to do with hunting a wizard.

2 Being bankrupt in this department.

3 Thus proving it doesn't pay to have your mouth full when someone else in your group is looking for a volunteer.

4 Not that it needed to be due. When it came to running from danger, Rincewind was a firm believer in making advance deposits of speed and establishing annuities of cowardice.

5 A misapprehension on Oozy's part. The Librarian, having been left entirely content with his own magical transformation, prefers to make opponents _wish_ he would turn them into frogs.


	34. The Worsening Crisis

It was against the code of the Igors to complain, and Igor was painfully aware of how far he'd gone astray on that one already. 'Thooner or later,' as his mother used to tell him, they all violated the complaining rule, at least a little. But now he was working with his distant cousin Igor on a task of utmost importance, so he needed to be circumspect.

"You thure turned him into a neigh-thayer, I'll give you that. And thuch a lovely thade on the thkin," Igor said to him. "You mutht tell me how you managed it."

Igor nodded and chose to concentrate on the distasteful task at hand. All Igors were experts at carrying out escapes – their own, anyway. Arranging an accidental and inconspicuous escape for a violet villain who now sounded like the jackass he was presented a more difficult challenge. The City Watch could act their parts well enough, especially when they had all the excuses they needed for seeming distracted. Quirke the Jerk, as the prisoner had been dubbed, didn't strike Igor as having enough intelligence to manage a getaway if he were led by the nose through one. Yet Quirke had to believe that the escape was all _his_ idea. He mustn't suspect a thing once he got out of the lockup, most especially not that he'd be followed every inch of the way to whatever New Guard hideout he bolted for. Mr. Lipwig had been very clear on that point and intended to handle much of the shadowing assignment himself.

"If I'm right," cousin Igor murmured, watching the dials on his seize-mometer, "the next thaking event thould come very thoon."

The tremor came right on schedule. Objects on shelves started to rattle, sounds of people swearing and exclaiming drifted from upstairs. Igor signaled to Igor and at the push of a button, tiny explosive charges detonated and the outer wall of 'Mayonnaise' Quirke's tanty cell crumbled like a sand castle.1 The minor quake continued for another minute or so before the ground settled back down, but the commotion was far from over. Up above whistles and a clang of alarm bells sounded, if without many running footsteps to accompany them.

"Think it'th working?" Igor asked Igor.

"Only one way to know for thertain," Igor answered, opening a concealed door in the Pseudopolis Yard laboratory that had a ramp leading up to an alleyway off of one street. From a hidden venue in the alley they watched their handiwork's result. Quirke was doing a runner, as inconspicuously as a purple, braying man in a conspicuous, rumpled uniform could, while groups of panicked people came out onto the street and blocked his path every which way as members of the City Watch appeared not to see him.

Just as Quirke was almost vanished from the Igors' view, he crashed straight into a young man running in the opposite direction with a wooden spoon in one hand. Following that young man were two others of the same age being chased by a quartet of wizards, one of whom was an orangutan, and all of whom collapsed into a pile as a highly localized storm of custard pies came raining down on them.

"Doeth thith thort of thing happen often?" Igor asked Igor.

Igor sighed.

"If Mithter Lipwig ith involved in any way, I'd have to thay yeth."

[* * * *]

"No doubt about it, Gentlemen," Archchancellor Ridcully boomed, "the quakes are getting stronger. Stibbons – status report!"

Ponder Stibbons didn't look up from the report Hex was printing out but blinked, wiped his glasses, and checked the report again before answering.

"Er . . . according to Hex, the shaking activity is not only getting stronger, the interval between events is getting shorter."

"We can tell that for ourselves, man!" Ridcully rapped the end of his staff on the floor in a way that made the other wizards wince. "Tell us something about the situation we don't know. Why isn't it working?"

It, in the Archchancellor's case, meant the effort the wizards had been expending to redirect the flow of magics disrupted by the iron octogram. Nearly the whole wizard staff of Unseen University had been pressed to the vital task, even to the extent of skipping several meals and snack breaks per day and additional cutbacks on leisure time. Such extraordinary sacrifice, the Archchancellor's tone implied, should not be going unrewarded.

"There seem to be other forces at work." Stibbons continued to ponder the printout. "Hex believes that beings from another realm-"

"What – the blasted Dungeon Dimensions again?" Ridcully spluttered. "I thought we settled their hash enough last year."

The younger wizard shook his head.

"Not the demons this time, Archchancellor. It's coming from someplace else. Hex hasn't been able to narrow the search of the source enough to pinpoint it, but someone or something out there is trying to counteract what we're doing. Also-"

"There's more?"

"Er . . . yes," Stibbons muttered with the air of a man who knows he is going to be blamed for something that isn't his fault. "The iron octogram is still largely intact. The railway tracks are being repositioned, but some of the mine owners are refusing to divert their ore and rubbish piles."

"Refusing!" Ridcully roared. "It's the end of our world if they don't!"

"Yes, Archchancellor. But some of them don't believe that. Or they think it's got nothing to do with them." Stibbons wiped some of the senior wizard's spittle off his glasses. "They just don't seem to be willing to listen to reason."

"I don't expect them to listen to reason, Professor Stibbons! I expect them to listen to orders!" The Archchancellor banged his fist down so hard next to Hex' console that some of the equipment rattled. "Nobody refuses a wizard!2 By thunder, I'll set the Head of Post-Mortem Communications on 'em all if they don't shape up! Or better yet, the Librarian!"

Ponder Stibbons shank back even further in his seat, a move which did not escape the Archchancellor's attention.

"Do you have a problem with that, potential ex-faculty member Stibbons?"

Fear was not the only reason for the awkward silence that followed the question. When you are the one teaching member of the Unseen University staff expected to do most of the actual teaching and, for that matter the majority of all work in general, as Ponder Stibbons was, release from those responsibilities was less a threat than a pipe dream. But Ponder was practical enough to know how pipe dreams ended up.

"The thing is," he finally replied, "we don't know where Professor Hix or the Librarian are at the moment. They aren't here."

"Hrrmm . . . ." Ridcully's response wasn't an explosion but a puzzled murmur. "Must be something vital going on if the Librarian is involved. Hix too? Hard to see what could be more important than what we're doing here right now but . . . ." The Archchancellor's forehead furrowed. "Any other wizards missing, Stibbons?"

"Uh, yes." Ponder Stibbons undocked. "Professor Macarona is gone too and, um, Rincewind."

"Pah, Rincewind!" Ridcully scoffed, before pausing to consider. "Though the man has his uses I suppose . . . ."

The other wizards in the chamber nodded in agreement. None of them actually uttered the words 'lightning rod,' but several tried to lower their posture just a bit. Rincewind was always handy to keep around as long as you didn't have to be near him at the time.

"And Dr. Macarona as well, eh? A damn bad business." Ridcully adjusted his outer robe, jammed his pointed hat more firmly onto his head and marched toward the door.

"Wait!" Stibbons called before he could stop himself. "Where are you going?"

"To find our missing wizards, of course! " The Archchancellor shouted. "And to have a few words with some mine owners while I'm at it! We'll need every wizard we can get if we're to succeed! In the meantime, I'll expect you lot to double your efforts and make it snappy! Stibbons, get Hex to give you more answers – and better ones. If someone's trying to stop us, we need to stop them first. I want to know who our enemy is and I want to know now!"

[* * * *]

1 The normal Klatchian variety of sand castle, that is. No one would attempt to use water or sand from the river Ankh, the most polluted body of water on the Discworld, since little 'Bergie' Johnson attempted it fifty years earlier and inadvertently created a small, indestructible hull breaker that has forced ships coming into Ankh-Morpork to detour around it ever since.

2 Which saying goes a long way toward explaining why there are so many frogs, cockroaches, mice and other small creatures on the Disc named Nobody. It also explains why B.S. Johnson was never in want of steady employment during his lifetime, much to the continuing sorrow of numerous individuals.


	35. Changing Tactics

"We have met the enemy and they are us," Albert Malich sighed.

SQUEAK.

"Couldn't have said it better myself."

Where they were standing, the eternal plain was not so much cracked as pockmarked and scratched from the after-effects of Albert's fireballs. Lu-Tze, in his imperturbable manner, swept up the ashes of this most recent battle.

"They're getting more creative, we must give them that," Vetinari said.

The latest batch of Auditors attempting to block their way _had_ been more creative – to the limited extent that they were capable of. Instead of taking the shape of wolves again, they'd made themselves resemble the very individuals they were trying to stop. This hadn't created much in the way of confusion though, as their likenesses to Vetinari and company were superficial at best. The effort needed to maintain the new forms rendered the duplicating Auditors almost helpless. The Lu-Tze lookalikes had tripped over their own brooms while trying to display the most basic combat stances. The Susan lookalikes couldn't manage their own swords, which in any case were no match for the original. The imitation Greebos and Deaths of Rats fared even worse, squeaking, fleeing in terror and perishing at the scythe and claws of the real thing. Most unfortunate of all, though, were the un-Alberts who had been foolish enough to annoy a true wizard and a very few false 'After' Edwardses who had suffered the combined wrath of the entire group. None of the Auditors had been in their fake forms long enough to master the complexities of human physical speech, but a couple of them had gotten the rudiments of screaming down pat before they were destroyed. Now only the collective disgust they inspired – and some ashes – remained. No ghosts of Auditors had appeared, according to Susan, for which she seemed grateful.

"Death's too good for them," she'd whispered as the last pseudo-Edwards had vanished.

"We must be on the right track," Albert sniffled, rubbing eldritch soot off his hands onto his clothing and taking out a cigarette paper. "They're pulling out the stops now."

"Yes." Vetinari nodded and began walking more briskly. He alone had not had any doppelgangers to reflect back at him for some reason. "Difficult to believe beings of such infinite power have so little understanding in how to use it, and are so unable to handle us."

 _Because We do not understand You._

The Auditor voice in their heads caused the group's members to level their weapons and look for something to attack again, but no Auditor was visible. Then, slowly, a crimson mist coalesced into the vague, empty-robed shape of an Auditor, armless sleeves raised in a supplicant position. Greebo yowled, sprang at the misty figure and passed right through it with no apparent effect beyond a rough landing.

 _Our power is no more infinite than Our understanding. We do not understand Life._

"Don't understand Death, either." Albert clenched his hands as if preparing another fireball spell. "How do we know you ain't one of the grey blighters in disguise?"

Susan gestured for Albert to hold off on an assault.

"The grey Auditors don't have that much imagination for one thing," she told the rest. "They can't even do a passable us after spending so much time spying on us. If Auditors tried to make themselves look like rival Auditors or imitations, I think they'd screw up even worse somehow. Probably trip over their own robes or appear orange instead of red or something."

The empty crimson robe did not refute her assessment.

"But they're capable of learning, don't forget," Albert grumbled. "All at the same time too. What one knows, they all know. We haven't established what makes some of 'em different."

"Apart from less fear," Vetinari reminded him. "I think we can establish that any Auditor brave enough to appear before us alone right now is a cut braver than the rest of the grey ones, wouldn't you say?"

The crimson cowl nodded.

 _We are not They. They are not We. They are afraid. The One who leads Them is the most afraid._

"Afraid enough to be irrational?" Vetinari asked.

No immediate answer came. The empty cowl tilted as if considering, or conferring.

 _We are not sure what rational or irrational means,_ the mental voice responded. _So, perhaps._

"Destroying the world because you don't understand it isn't rational," Susan said. "Reducing a painting to its component dust looking for beauty in the pile isn't rational."1

"So in some senses we may be facing an opponent that has much in common with humanity," Vetinari sighed. "I don't know if that's helpful or not."

At that moment, Lu-Tze the Sweeper came between Vetinari and the Auditor, pushing his broom.

"It is an interesting philosophical discussion," the Sweeper added. "Yet might one point out that time is of the essence?"

The empty cowl nodded.

 _The occasion of Unbalancing has nearly occurred. Soon it may become unstoppable._

"But 'may' is not the same thing as 'is.' There is still a chance. There are always chances, as someone once told me," Vetinari said.

"And they are not to be wasted." Lu-Tze whisked his broom back to its resting place on his shoulder and suddenly he was standing a hundred yards or more closer to where they'd been going. "Truly it is written, 'Move yer bloomin' arses!'" he shouted back at the group before disappearing again.

"Remind me to learn how he does that," Vetinari panted as he broke into a run after the Sweeper.

"If any of us are left," Albert shrugged, suddenly levitating and flying past both Vetinari and Susan.

"Show off," Susan growled and grabbed Vetinari by the wrist. "Come on!"

Vetinari had no ability to pull away from her grasp or resist as he felt the now familiar chill of Death's Hand on his flesh or on whatever was serving him as pseudo flesh in this place. He stared over at Susan and saw, to his horror, a series of cascading images of her – of the infant and young girl she had once been, of the woman he'd verbally sparred with, of someone middle-aged, elderly and ancient all at the same moment, someone or something ageless and eternal too as he found himself on Binky's back, in the saddle once again, but traveling much more swiftly than they had the first time.

"I CAN ONLY DO THIS WITH YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE MOSTLY DEAD," Susan's cold VOICE informed him.

"And you're calling Albert a show off?" was the best retort Vetinari could manage. _Am I seeing the way Death sees people right now?_ He wondered. _If so, how can he care about any of us?_

"BEATS ME," Susan Death answered.

"You can read my mind?"

"SORRY," she said, and something in that VOICE sounded contrite, a bit more like Susan.

Binky's gallop toward the unmoving Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse came to an abrupt halt so close to those figures that Vetinari found himself staring straight at War's substantial and armored gut. In another sense war – and false winter – were going on all around them as Kaos and his chariot team and a handful of crimson Auditors battled a multitude of grey Auditors and Auditor/wolves.

"If this is the final battle, did we at least come here with a battle plan?" Vetinari asked a dismounting Susan.

"I thought you had one!"

"Yes," Vetinari told her. "But it needs Albert and the Death of Rats and we seem to have left them behind."

Susan cursed through clenched teeth as she and Vetinari struggled to stay on a bucking Binky while a group of Auditor/wolves surrounded them.

"Terrific," she whispered to him. "So do you have any other plans?"

"Not to die, but I haven't been entirely successful at that so far either."

 _Allow Us to make you a complete failure._

The snapping, growling wolves began to close in and Binky dispatched one of them with a hoof kick. But it was clear these Auditors were made of sterner stuff than the previous ones, and they had learned how to bite. Vetinari drew both of his daggers and Susan drew the Sword.

"I can't say it's been a pleasure to have met you," Vetinari told her. "But it hasn't been an entire displeasure either."

Susan nodded.

"The same for me."

The Auditors leapt.

[* * * *]

1 See Terry Pratchett's _Thief of Time._


	36. Tumults and Tunnels

What amazing luck! Fortune was smiling at last on Captain Quirke, he thought, as he dashed madly up a side street. He'd had a bad few minutes there, thinking he'd been apprehended by an entire band of wizards, but somehow he'd managed to evade them all in the rapidly swelling pile of pastry cream that had them surrounded. Now that he and a significant number of streetgoers were slathered in sweet glop and candy sprinkles his purple skin didn't make him stand out as much in the crowd. He'd still have to keep his mouth shut to avoid making those strange noises, but for now he was managing to avoid the coppers and the wizards too. Even the Watch's vaunted werewolf wouldn't be able to tell his scent apart from the other two dozen or so humanoid custard tarts scattering themselves through the Opera House precincts. Yes, he was free as the breeze1 and all he had to do was make his way back to New Guard headquarters. It was a piece of . . . .

[-]

"Cake?" Professor Hix roared. "You dare to face the fury of Post-Mortem Communications with-" his shout was cut off as a bucket-sized blob of blancmange and a hailstorm of toffee bits poured down on him. Smalldab, mouth already open in mute terror, choked on another barrage of the stuff.

"Leave off, man! You're making it worse!" Archchancellor Ridcully called over, dispelling as much dessert as he could with a wave of his staff. Alone among the wizards he had managed to remain sugar free while the rest of them along with the Smuts were looking more like supernatural sundaes.

"Glacéed cherries," Rincewind moaned, trying to shake himself loose of toppings. "I _hate_ glacéed cherries!"

"Ook," the Librarian concurred, matted with caramel meringue that matched his fur.

"Complain as you like. Rolled fondant is the worst," Professor Macarona muttered, attempting to crawl out from under a heavy pile of the stuff while coated in marzipan.

"All of you be quiet and concentrate!" the Archchancellor ordered. "We must stop the sweeties storm before it's too late!"

For much of the intersection in front of the Opera and Pseudopolis Yard, it already was too late to avoid a cavity-inducing mess. Flying balls of fondant and gum paste smacked into any object, living or otherwise, that hadn't gotten out of their way fast enough. Cart horses and donkeys found themselves torn between the temptation to panic and flee the chaos or scarf up as many fallen sugar cubes and treats as they could. Some adults ran from the scene while others stood paralyzed or tried gathering up the magical munchies. Children ran everywhere squealing with joy. Outcroppings of buildings became minarets of candy floss.

"What should we concentrate on?" Rincewind asked, flailing to avoid more toppings.

"Ook eek eek ook!" the Librarian shouted.

"Excellent suggestion! Stop using magic, everyone!" The Archchancellor ordered, then cursed as candied orange slices began striking him while his defensive spells were down.2

"Oh good! I'm great at not doing magic!" Rincewind replied. Aside from running and screaming, this was his area of expertise.

Muttering, Professor Hix and Professor Macarona broke off their spellcasting as well. But the confectionary cloudburst didn't stop, even when Archchancellor Ridcully restrained his temper. Magical marshmallow and meringue frosting continued to pile up.

"It isn't working!" Professor Hix yelled. "Why isn't it working?"

As he released his grip on Smalldab in order to fend off off another vacherin cake volley, a thick-set female figure waded into their midst and a strident voice cut through the sugary atmosphere like a buzz saw slicing through butter.

"Smally Sullivan!" The new arrival screeched at the stock still Smut. "You give me back my spoon this instant!" Without waiting for any reply, she marched over to Smalldab and snatched the wooden spoon out of his grasp, gave him a disgusted snort, turned on one heel, and stomped away without sparing a second glance to the wizards, the other two Smuts or the sweet mess they were all caught up in. The instant she left, the out-of-control rain of royal icing and other sugary substances stopped, leaving behind only blue sky and some very large piles of pastry, frostings, and candied objects to be cleaned up.

[* * * *]

Golems seldom wear ganache. In fact, most golems seldom wear anything, the notable exception being Gladys, whose floral print dresses as well as name had made her become female somehow. But Adora Belle Dearheart was so familiar with Pump 19's appearance that not even a thick coating of chocolate could keep her from recognizing him – or distract her from the fact that he was standing alone near the sugar-crusted intersection in front of Pseudopolis Yard.

"What happened here, Pump 19?" She asked, stepping around a puddled pool of butterscotch. "Why aren't you with Moist?"

"Mr. Lipvig Said That He Had An Important Errand To Run And That My Presence Would Make It More Dangerous For Him. So He Requested That I Bodyguard Him At A Distance."

Adora knew what passed for logic in a golem too well to try and point out the obvious flaws in such a strategy. Unfortunately, Moist now understood golem logic almost as well, and Adora knew Moist better than anyone.

"And did he say what this errand was?" She used the calmest, politest tone of voice she had – the one that had made Clacks workers duck under or behind nearby objects whenever they heard it being used.

"He Said He Was Going To Follow Someone, And Also That He Was Going To Cause You To Stare At Some Jewelry, But I Am Not Sure What He Meant By That."

Adora clenched her hands into fists. Her eyes glittered like iron pyrites and the saccharine aromas of Pseudopolis Yard briefly mingled with that of cigarette smoke.

"It means this is a very dangerous errand for him either way, Pump 19. Trust me."

[* * * *]

Mr. Selfway looked toward the city gate and cursed. Traffic should have been streaming out of it, and Mr. Selfway had been counting on that traffic as something he could hide in and make a quick escape from town as inconspicuously as possible. Instead, carts and people were streaming into it, so thickly that the gate seemed to offer no avenue of exit. The other gates had been just as bad as this one. Everything was going wrong – this wasn't how the Restoration of Rule in Ankh-Morpork should have gone at all. Lord Snike should have been on the throne in the Palace by now and the gates should have been thronged by a steady stream of new exiles and undesirables leaving. Even Mr. Selfway's very useful information, now acted upon, should have been a means to procuring control of the city for his master. But abducting the little Vimes brat had proven the exact opposite of useful. Not only had Mr. Selfway endured a severe shin-kicking from the young monster, but half of the remaining New Guardsmen had taken flight in a kind of superstitious fear of the City Watch Commander 'going spare' and even the Assassin's Guild had turned on them – allegedly - for the same reason. To make matters worse, the one going _most_ spare of all was Lord Snike himself, who seemed to be unraveling as fast as his own plans. Lord Snike wasn't congratulating Mr. Selfway on helping to achieve a Master Stroke anymore. Rather he had accused Mr. Selfway of deliberately and treacherously leading him astray and threatened to have him hanged, drawn and quartered. Mr. Selfway wasn't sure what the drawings and quarterings were about, but he knew what hanging was, and didn't like the sound of that one bit.

How to escape, though, when Mr. Selfway was sure that every New Guard, City Watch officer or Assassin in the city might be looking for him? The railway trains were bound to be watched, so the trade gates were the safest bet. He'd almost made his getaway through a few seconds' gap in the congestion, but for a farmer who'd suddenly blocked the entire archway herding in his flock of young goats. Mr. Selfway could have rushed the gate and gotten away with it, if it hadn't been for those meddling kids. But now the path was blocked by something coming in which was much, much worse – a pair of gigantic trolls in City Watch uniforms. Anyone with common sense living in Ankh-Morpork had learned to recognize Sergeant Detritus by now, and his hulking colleague had to be Corporal Bluejohn, a troll so large that the city gates sometimes tried to get out of _his_ way. No one bigger than a goblin would fit past the two of them.

Mr. Selfway was so fixed on the sight of the pair that he never even noticed the werewolf sneaking up behind him until he felt the paw on his shoulder and the hot breath on his neck.

[* * * *]

Sam Vimes wasn't going spare. He couldn't spare the time to go spare. His child needed him to be Sam Vimes right now, not the Beast that howled its rage within him. Sam Vimes could be a whole lot more dangerous. The rotten-miserable-bastard-moving-target who called himself Lord Snike was going to find that out – but first Vimes needed to find his son. _Had_ to find him. Alive.

 _Please_. . . .

Because the nightmare had become reality. Young Sam was in the hands of the Pretender Patrician, and Snike had sent Vimes a taunting missive to let him know it. No demands yet, no direct threats. Just a smug little 'we've got you by the short hairs' letter. Vimes wasn't fool enough to believe anything short of rescue could keep his son safe. There was no bargaining with a madman. What did Snike expect? That Vimes would order the entire City Watch to bow down to a new master? That his officers would obey such an order? It didn't work that way here, not anymore. Vimes' staff would march through hell and battle the devil for him, but they wouldn't _become_ the devil for him. So what happened when Snike gave Vimes an order he and the Watch wouldn't – no, _couldn't_ – follow?

Vimes had a horrible vision of Young Sam, bloody, dangling like a broken marionette in the grasp of Snike's troll henchman.

 _And Of the Twilight the Darkness could never make that potion again . . . ._

But that vision was followed by a worse one – a familiar row of grave markers in Small Gods, and a new marker added . . . .

 _No_.

Maybe part of him _was_ going spare, but Vimes wasn't going to let that vision happen. So Vimes called on all his sources, called in favors as subtly as he could, because a net was closing in on the New Guard no matter what Vimes did. Snike had made enemies in every direction and allies that turned out to be leased, not bought. Even before Vimes received Snike's ominous note, information against him had started trickling in. Time was running out. If the City Watch didn't nail Snike's hide to the wall, someone else would, and that someone might not care if an eight year old's body got in the way . . . .

"Captain, anything?" Vimes looked up at the hulking figure of Captain Carrot.

"Possibly," Carrot said. "Treacle Mine Road reports that Captain Angua has apprehended a person of interest, and they said Sergeant Detritus and Corporal Bluejohn are back. Sally and Mr. Pesimal clacks'd to say they'll be here by late tomorrow."

Vimes wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but he wasn't relieved yet, so all that came out was a snort.

"Where the hell are Fred and Nobby then? Quirm's only a day away! Don't they understand the seriousness of the situation?" _Too damn right, they probably did!_ But Vimes hadn't figured they'd leave him in the lurch while he or his family was in danger. Did they know about Young Sam yet?

"Nobby wrote back two days ago to say he and Sergeant Colon were guarding an important beach resort that was in peril. I gathered from the letter that Fred's wife had raised some objection to their return so soon."

" _That's_ their excuse? I didn't think Mrs. Colon even went with them!"

"She didn't." Captain Carrot looked a little embarrassed. "And, um, Cheery says Grag Flambrung may be ready to tell us something."

"Come again?" _That_ wasn't a development Vimes had been expecting, not without resorting to methods he wouldn't use or allow. "How?"

"I believe it's Cheery's doing, Sir. He . . . er, she, Flambrung that is, has had a major shakeup to her world view, and Cheery has been talking to her and helping her adjust."

"And now Flambrung has started to be all sweetness and light and cooperation, eh?" In Vimes' opinion that still didn't excuse any of Grag Flambrung's crimes, but he'd take any crumb of information he could get right now. Unfortunately that wouldn't include any knowledge of Young Sam's whereabouts, but it might include a listing of places where his son _could_ be held.

"Not sweetness, and definitely not light either," Carrot told him. "But Cheery says the Blackboard Monitor might get a much better response this time."

It would have to do. And Angua's 'person of interest' needed to be interviewed too. Somewhere out there was the frightened child Sam Vimes loved more than life. Somebody had to know something.

 _Hang on, kid,_ Vimes prayed. _Daddy's coming for you!_

[* * * *]

People in Ankh-Morpork could – and would – make a buck doing just about anything. Doing so _legally_ was always the safest, though not necessarily the easiest or most profitable means to the end. Threepshaw liked easy, and he liked profitable even more. He also fancied himself a risk taker. He got an ever-so-slight but essential thrill out of doing something illegal, and now that Lord Vetinari was dead, well, risk wasn't quite so risky anymore, was it?

Not that all danger was removed from Threepshaw's current enterprise. One didn't skirt the rules governing waste disposal – or Harry King's garbage-collecting empire – without a certain amount of hazard. But getting rid of some waste by-products was _so_ expensive if done properly, say by Harry King's folk, and the Tannery business produced _so_ much of it . . . . An astonishing amount of money could be made by the entrepreneur who knew how to hide away that waste cheaply if not quite get rid of it. The Tanners kept their mouths shut and their pursestrings open. Threepshaw kept the Tanners happy, and the Patrician and the King of the Yellow River were none the wiser.

Threepshaw hummed quietly to himself as he skipped down one of the access tunnels that led to his cavernous cash cow. In another hundred feet he'd have to switch from humming to mouth breathing – the smell of the cave was enough to wrinkle a statue's nose. But the beauty of it was that, smelly or no, the cave was so old and so deep underneath the city that people had forgotten its existence, forgotten about the handy network of ancient pipes and secret byways that had been built into it. He himself had only stumbled upon the cavern by happy accident while rummaging for treasures in Ankh-Morpork's long-neglected underlayers. But Threepshaw had an eye for the main chance, and had a Tanner cousin who'd complained about sewage and garbage bills constantly. When opportunity knocked, Threepshaw beat a path to the door.

Threepshaw stopped humming a few seconds sooner than he'd intended as he heard a noise coming from the cavern opening up ahead of him. This wasn't just the usual drip or blurp of tannery waste either. This sounded suspiciously like voices – voices that even more suspiciously became muted as he approached. He drew the throwing knife that he always kept at his side, and wondered if he'd need the other weapons he carried. The trouble with the thrill of getting away with something is you actually had to get away with it.

Threepshaw was still wondering if a hasty retreat was his best option when he heard a 'whump' sound and looked down at the shaft of a crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest. That didn't belong in there, he was pretty sure. He saw, rather than felt, the throwing knife slip from his fingers and listened to it clatter on the floor of the tunnel. Then he watched as he and all of the other possessions he wore or carried crumpled onto the floor.

"Bugger," he said to himself. "That's done it." No point in being silent now, though he noticed his words weren't echoing the way they usually did here. While he continued to watch himself, a bearded, purple velvet-clad man carrying a crossbow and a troll carrying a sack moved toward him from the cave chamber. The troll's sack was wriggling. These new arrivals peered around the tunnel cautiously before the velvet-clad figure went over and kicked Threepshaw's body.

"Hey, knock that off!" Threepshaw yelled, though his assailant didn't seem to be listening.

"Just another piece of rubbish," the kicker said to the troll. "May as well toss it into the drink. Do it."

Without putting down the sack, the troll hefted Threepshaw's body up onto one shoulder, carried it into the cavern where a crumbling ledge overlooked a glistening, toxic lake of waste fluids, other ledges and other tunnel openings, and heaved the body into the lake. Threepshaw sank with a noisy splash. He wanted to swim upwards, but nothing was working for him anymore.

"Oh, bugger," Threepshaw murmured again, drifting down onto the lake's sludgy bottom. Already parts of him were starting to dissolve in the caustic fluid. He had the feeling that something else should be happening too, though he wasn't quite sure what it was . . . .

[* * * *]

1 Technically a bit of a misleading term, as the enterprising citizens of Ankh-Morpork have found a way to charge for everything, including different rent rates for locations upwind and downwind of the River Ankh, the tanneries and large parts of Harry King's compound. Far from being free, a breeze (at least the right _sort_ of breeze) can cost quite a lot.

2 Which had the effect of turning the orange slices into candied dried frogs. One has to be very, very careful about using swear words when one is a wizard.


	37. One Mess After Another

"Bloody hell!" Susan hissed. The dark, starry plain wasn't Hell, but one section of it was very bloody. So far, that blood wasn't hers, but the wolves were still moving in and she and her allies were slowing down. A strange shadow had appeared behind her eyes. "I don't have time for this!"

"Dying?" Vetinari wondered aloud, stabbing a false wolf. "Death?"

"Yes! I can't do that job right now! It's just going to have to wait!" She knew she could step outside of time, but so could the Auditors, so 'outside of time' was relative here.

"You seem to be killing these adequately," Vetinari observed, dispatching another wolf-Auditor himself.

"Auditors are different," Susan panted, swinging the sword again. True to the Lead Auditor's prediction, she was growing tired, but couldn't afford to let it show. Killing her opponents was a lot easier when they believed they were alive enough to die and believed she was up to the job. The Lead Auditor evidently was a True Believer. It didn't change form and it never allowed her to get close to itself. She kept trying, though it was all she could do to fend off more wolfish attackers. Vetinari, following her example, tried to get to the Lead Auditor too, but with no better luck. If anything, it seemed to shy away from him even more than it did her.

"You _are_ afraid of me, aren't you?" Vetinari whispered, not expecting to be heard above the din of combat. But an Auditor didn't need ears to hear.

 _We are not afraid of any individual_ , the response sounded in his head.

"How unfortunate for you," Vetinari said as he slashed his way forward, "that I am not just any individual."

 _No. You are more pathetic._

If the Lead Auditor intended to get a rise out of the erstwhile Patrician it was disappointed. Vetinari had heard far worse and more apt insults in his long career and kept his Assassin's focus well enough that it was the Auditor who once again had to fall back. But the Lead Auditor had another trick, if not an actual hand, up its sleeve. With that seemingly empty bit of robe it gestured and the black, starry plain cracked open once more. This time it wasn't the flat surface of the plain under their feet that broke, but rather a rift opened up in the empty space above, in the air or whatever passed for air. The Lead Auditor fled through this gap and in a sudden press of Auditor-wolves, a desperately parrying Susan and Vetinari found themselves being pushed toward the rift as well. They redoubled their efforts but nevertheless moved closer to the opening – or was it moving closer to them? Just as they were on the brink of being forced through it, they could see Kaos and Albert coming toward them in the background, and a bleeding, yelping, fleeing cloud of Auditor-wolves, one or two of them barking something that sounded like 'down, kitty!' before they vanished.

"We need the Death of Rats too," Vetinari shouted over to Susan on the edge of the hole in space.

"What?" she called back.

Then there was no more time for words as all sound ceased and they crossed through the barrier.

[* * * *]

"Well this is highly irregular," Archchancellor Ridcully harrumphed as he watched the back of the annoyed cake baker storming away in the distance, along with the rest of her anatomy and the now-unglowing wooden spoon.

"Perhaps not as much as we think," Professor Macarona said, picking some stray bits of marzipan and fondant off his robe as he regarded the scared, sorry and sugar-coated spectacle that was Smut Smalldab Sullivan.1 "Tell me, young man, how many older brothers do you have?"

"Muh-me?" Smalldab stammered.

"Yuh-you," Professor Hix further terrified the Smut by jabbing an index finger2 into the young man's chest while mimicking his quavering voice. "You heard the question! How many brothers do you have?"

Smalldab screwed up his face in concentration. What little animal brain he had was telling him he really didn't want to end up as Bursar pill bait. He began to squeak out an answer.

"Uh, there's Colin – he's oldest – and Tom an' Willy and Pete and Jon an', and," Smalldab sweated profusely with the effort of thought, "and Pat and Sylly an' . . . that's all," he finished. "So at least five, yeah?" He held up four fingers on one hand to show the wizards. "Only I ain't got no sisters on account of Mam says girls are too smart to be born in with the likes of us."

"So, an eighth son," Professor Macarona mused. "And how many older brothers did your father have?"

Smalldab shrank back at the question.

"Don't rightly know," he murmured. "Mam said she isn't sure who 'e was."

"Lucky man," Professor Hix snorted. "Bengo, you don't seriously expect us to believe that this alley vermin is a . . . an . . . ."

"Eighth son of an eighth son?" Professor Macarona shrugged. "It's a possibility. He does seem to have caused magical effects to appear, albeit unintentionally, using a wooden object with a knob on the end."

"It was a _spoon_ for crying out loud!"

"Which is wooden, has a straight handle and a knob on the end. It could count as a wizard's staff of sorts, a very small one."

"Ook!" the Librarian nodded glumly.

Professor Macarona turned to Ridcully.

"What I believe we have here, Archchancellor, is a wizard even less competent than Rincewind."

" _Less_ competent than Rincewind?" the Archchancellor groaned. "The end of the world really _is_ at hand!"

As if to emphasize Ridcully's point, the ground underneath their feet began shaking again.

"Bother it!" the Archchancellor barked. "We don't have time to deal with all this sugary nonsense! We have mine owners to pay a call on!"

The Archchancellor's word was as good as law3 with his faculty, but Professor Hix and the Librarian seemed reluctant to let their prey go so easily.

"One less wizard in this case wouldn't be a bad thing," Professor Hix growled.

"Ook."

Smalldab was shivering with terror already and on the point of fainting, but Professor Macarona interceded again.

"Now, now, Gentlemen! Dead men's shoes, remember? If you kill a wizard, you're supposed to take his place. Do either of you _want_ to be leader of the Smuts gang?"

"You must be joking!" Professor Hix exclaimed. But he knew the tradition as well as any wizard. The Librarian recoiled in horror immediately, but the Head of Post Mortem Communications decided to get in one final warning. "A lucky break for you, young barely-a-man! But if you ever burn or damage another written word, try to cast spells or go anywhere near that spoon again, I'll treat you to a fate worse than death." Professor Hix flashed the skull ring in front of Smalldab's petrified gaze. "I know a _lot_ of fates worse than death. Understand?"

Smalldab nodded eagerly.

"N-never! I promise!"

"Good!" Ridcully roared at them all, having opened up a teleportation gateway with his own magic staff while they were arguing. "Now!" he barked again. Obediently, the Men from O.o.o.k. marched through it with the Archchancellor following before the gateway vanished, leaving behind three very dazed and candy-coated Smuts and a very large mess.

[* * * *]

1 Go ahead – say it three times fast – I dare you!

2 Not necessarily his own, you understand. A proper wearer of the skull ring needs to keep supplies for these occasions.

3 Always a flexible definition in Ankh-Morpork nevertheless. Several firms, including the venerable Morecombe, Slant and Honeyplace, have made vast fortunes from that flexibility.


	38. The Toxic Cavern

_Bloody hell all over again –_ he didn't need this right now! Vimes cursed mentally as the strong quake shook him nearly off his feet and caused dust and pebble-sized pieces of debris to rain down on him from the underground tunnel ceiling above. Beside him, Captain Carrot and Captain Angua in her wolf form kept to their feet, but not all of the Watchpersons following could say the same. The tunnel corridors seemed wide and sturdy enough to withstand the tremors that were shaking the whole city, but for how long? And what happened next if the quakes kept getting stronger? Vimes had to shove those worries aside and hope that his biggest fear hadn't yet come to pass.

According to Mr. Selfway, now in the Treacle Mine lockup, Lord Snike was now about as mentally stable as the Canting Crew, and had been on his way to an hidden cavern near here with Albite the troll and their young hostage. Beyond that, Selfway hadn't known what Snike's intentions were and hadn't wanted to know. He'd just been scurrying for an exit faster than a rat on a dwarf floating café barge. But Vimes was getting closer to finding his son – he could feel it. No set of quakes or maze of tunnels was going to stop him. He could practically smell the goal ahead . . . .

Angua barked and then whined and slowed down before the stench made itself known to the rest of them. But as the tunnel revealed an opening at one end, suddenly they could all smell the goal, and wished they couldn't. The atmosphere in front of them didn't just stink or fug, it _reeked_ in a way that even reeking was ashamed of. This odor stung and burned and nauseated all at the same time, as if all the smells of Ankh-Morpork's tannery district, Alchemist's street, sewers and garbage yards had been bottled up and amplified somehow. Confronted with it, Angua yelped and backed herself against one wall and began transforming right in front of the rest of them. Captain Carrot threw his cloak over the shifting shape so that it wasn't a completely naked woman who looked up at them from a crouched position on the floor. But she was now on the greenish end of pale, covering the lower part of her face with both shaking hands and peering up at her colleagues in a state of desperate misery.

"Sorry," her muffled voice came from behind her fingers. "I can't . . . I can't . . . ."

"Don't apologize," Vimes said, now trying to cover up his own nostrils. He motioned for Carrot to help her back away from the awful smell. Two of her Treacle Mine officers were already coming to help, and a few seconds later she was at a safer remove from the scent that must have been far more unpleasant to her than to anyone else. No werewolf could handle such a stench.

 _Ye gods,_ Vimes thought. _What is this place?_

Angua might not be able to help him track down his son in the maze of corridors past this point. But Vimes had a lifetime's experience facing down every smell Ankh-Morpork had to offer, from Foul Ole Ron to numerous other things he didn't even like to think about. Without waiting to see if any of the rest of the Watch would follow or not, he drew his sword and forged ahead into the stinking opening. He didn't need the Summoning Dark's gift of Night Vision down here either – the tunnel walls in front of him were slick and glowing with some kind of brilliant green mold that gave off its own light. In that light he saw a massive cavern open before him, and in it a vast reservoir of shimmering, oily liquid – the source of the stench. At the edges of the vast pond were crumbling ledges, some with bits of rusted metal railing still attached, and dark holes that formed the entrances to other tunnels. And there, on one very small and fragile looking ledge at a distance from the others . . . .

"Dad!"

Vimes' heart practically leapt out of his chest as he saw his boy and heard that longed-for voice. Young Sam was there, crouched only inches from the edge of the murky liquid, pale but alive – alive! No sign of Snike or his colossal minion either.

 _It can't be that easy . . . ._

As soon as he had that thought, Vimes knew it had to be right. He could see his son, but how could he get to him? Young Sam was on the opposite side of the noxious pond, and it wouldn't be just a matter of an easy swim. The surface didn't appear solid enough to walk on, like parts of the Ankh River. The fluid wasn't just water either. Vimes had some strips of dried beef that he carried in his belt pouch in case he didn't have time to stop for a regular meal. He took one out now and dropped it in. The little piece of meat began dissolving before it slipped out of sight.

 _Right._

Any wooden or canvas boat small enough to be brought down here probably wouldn't stand a much better chance. What had once been a tunnel entrance behind Young Sam appeared to be blocked with stones and debris too. That may have been the route Snike and company had taken to bring Young Sam down here but if so, they'd made sure no one else was going to get through it easily. That ledge looked so fragile – if another strong quake came . . . .

Captain Carrot had come up alongside Vimes and didn't need to be briefed. It was evident from the look on his face that he'd seen the fate of the beef strip and was puzzling over the same dilemma as Vimes. Even if they could find the other end of the tunnel behind his son, guarded or unguarded, could they clear away the debris blockage without sending Young Sam tumbling into the toxic sludge? Sergeant Detritus could get through any obstacle, but not gently.

"I don't suppose the flying carpets and broomsticks are working again yet?" Vimes asked.

"Not that I've heard," Carrot answered.

"Damn. Better send Angua or one of the others to fetch us some wizards anyway."

As Carrot vanished back into the tunnel, Vimes called out a few words of encouragement to his son while trying to weigh every conceivable option. There _had_ to be a way to rescue Young Sam before the ledge collapsed, but how?

Overhead, criss-crossing the roof of the cavern every which way, but above a height that Young Sam could reach, was a vast network of metal pipes. The pipes varied in width and apparently age – some looked solid enough but others were corroded nearly through and dripping more of the liquid. That didn't appear to be much of a route either. Any attempt to shoot a line of rope across the cavern didn't have much hope of succeeding with those crumbly walls – no safe anchor.

Vimes didn't know how many minutes he'd wracked his brains for a solution – did eternity feel this way all the time? – when Carrot rejoined him, along with someone Vimes hadn't expected to see down here.

"Thought you were tailing Quirke," Vimes grunted, barely sparing Moist von Lipwig a glance.

"I did," Moist replied. "One of Snike's men sent him here. He just ran straight into part of your Watch patrol, so I'm not to blame for getting him arrested this time." Moist wasn't looking at Vimes either, but darting his gaze around the subterranean chamber assessing the situation at a furious speed. "Tricky," he said.

Vimes had a lot of other words for it, but they died in his throat as a smaller aftershock rumbled through the cavern and nearly knocked his boy off the ledge. Young Sam managed to keep his balance, staying as far back from the edge as he could, but he had turned white as a sheet. To his horror, Vimes noticed that the ledge wasn't just crumbling anymore – it was cracking. A dark line had appeared all the way around the outer edges, as if the whole shelf might break off at any moment. As brave as the child was trying to be, Young Sam was fighting back tears and trembling visibly. He was a smart enough boy to know the danger he was in now.

"Oh . . . kay," Moist said, looking up at the mazework of pipes transecting the cave ceiling. "Anyone got a rope?"

As it turned out, Carrot did. In the manner of dwarves he tended to carry an astounding variety of spelunking equipment in his backpack.1 Moist took the rope from him without another word, coiled it around one shoulder and with little more than a nod, suddenly leapfrogged off of Vimes' and Carrot's backs and onto the nearest sturdy-looking pipe overhead.

"What the . . . ." Vimes' jaw dropped as he saw the nimble Postmaster climb out with speed along the pipeworks like a humanoid spider, feeling for each purchase as he went. A man would have to be crazy to do that . . . .

 _Crazy. Or the best damn climber I've ever seen . . . !_

Vimes' heart felt like it was in his mouth and all he could do was watch. He knew he didn't have the skill for what Moist was attempting. But the only thing that mattered now was his son's safety.

 _C'mon, Lipwig! You can do it!_

 _I hope . . . ._

[* * * *]

1 Astounding to humans, that is. Any _Dezka_ worth his _ha'lk_ wouldn't consider going about without this.


	39. Paying a Call on the Tooth Fairy

"I can't believe it!"

Vetinari arched an eyebrow at the exclamation as he and Susan continued to fight off the press of Auditor-wolves attacking them. Regardless of what she said, it was clear Death's granddaughter at least knew where they were now that they'd been forced through the Lead Auditor's portal. The fight had carried them into a castle of some sort – not the Palace at Ankh-Morpork or Lady Margolotta's pastryesque fortress either.

 _It is You who are not believed here._ The Lead Auditor's 'voice' came in their heads. _We have watched You. Here You have no power._

"Care to bet on it?" Susan hissed as she brought her sword down on the head of one of the wolves and it disappeared under the blow. The other Auditor-creatures yelped and suddenly backed away from her and Vetinari.

"I'd call that power," Vetinari observed.

"Death doesn't stay here but that doesn't mean it can't happen here," Susan growled back at the Auditor-wolves. "Your Assassin hireling Mr. Teatime proved that."

Vetinari proved it now too as he struck one of the wolves with his dagger and instead of leaving a bloody mess behind it disappeared as completely as Susan's attacker had.

"If you don't mind my asking," Vetinari said, guarding Susan's back and dispatching another wolf, "exactly where is here?"

"We're in the Tooth Fairy's Castle," Susan answered. "Mr. Teatime came here to inhume the Hogfather."

"Ah. Thank you for clarifying that."

Now that she'd said it, and the Auditor-wolves had become uncertain enough of their own immortality to back up a bit, he could see that the vast hall they were in was decorated with tooth motifs. Auditors weren't the only ones coming to join in the fray either. Hurrying down one of the incisor-inscribed staircases toward them was an ethereal, wand-wielding woman in a tutu, a bleary-eyed, toga-clad young man and behind them a gigantic street tough that Vetinari thought he recognized.

"What's going on here?" the tutu-wearer screeched.

A number of Auditor-wolves panicked at the sight of the new arrivals and began scrambling for the still-open portal between dimensions. Even the Lead Auditor appeared to be caught off guard. Susan and Vetinari were able to extricate themselves from their assailants and move closer to the two men and the tutu'd wand-wielder.

"Hi, Violet – sorry for the interruption," Susan called out. "We were brought here against our will." Her Sword was held out against the Auditors, but none seemed eager to resume the attack. The very large man that Vetinari recognized looked worried.

"Miss Susan," the big man said, "you shouldn't hurt doggies."

"They aren't doggies, Banjo." Susan kept her voice as level as the Sword blade. "They are very nasty, naughty creatures pretending to be wolves so they can get away with doing nasty, naughty things. Don't try to pet them."

The standoff might have continued if one of the less cautious Auditor-wolves hadn't become emboldened enough to snap at the little woman named Violet. She shrieked with terror and leaped back barely in time to avoid the Auditor-wolf's snapping jaws. This caused the larger man, Banjo, to jump forward with surprising speed and smash one of his massive fists down onto the wolf's head with enough force to knock it flat.

"Bad doggie!" he yelled, waggling a thick finger at the stunned creature. "No hitting girls!"

 _I must differ._

The Lead Auditor materialized next to Susan and attempted to bludgeon her with a club-like weapon that she barely parried with an assist from Vetinari.

Just like that, the dozens of Auditor-wolves snapped out of their momentary hesitation to become a mass of confusion instead. Some backed away from Violet and her angry defender, straight into others of their kind moving forward to join their Leader's attack on Susan and Vetinari. Behind this lot, more Auditor-wolves headed for collision as they tried to flee back the way they came and crashed nose-to-nose into another group emerging from the portal in what appeared to be a panic. Not even the Lead Auditor seemed prepared for this. Their shared mind could not make up itself.

In the midst of the jumble, Violet's smaller companion in the toga extracted a metal flask from somewhere within his robe and began guzzling its contents with a blissfully blitzed expression on his face. Susan, still using the Sword to ward off the Lead Auditor's club, glanced over and was about to shout something at him when the pressure on her sword arm lessened and the Lead Auditor staggered.1 The Auditor-wolves began staggering too, and several of them howled in pain. This caused more Auditor-wolves to crouch down, clap paws over their ears and howl as well. Several of them started vomiting. All the while, the young man in the toga kept chugging and smiling, and Susan realized what he was up to.

"Oh god, you're giving them all hangovers, aren't you?"

"Yesh," the oh god grinned lopsidedly as he stopped drinking long enough to answer her. "It turnsh out I can do that. It'sh sho much more fun that getting them." He hiccupped. "Sho mush . . . much more . . . ."

The Lead Auditor dropped his club and clasped the head he didn't have in the hands he didn't have before disappearing once again. The Auditor-wolves were less fortunate, lolling on the floor of the Tooth Fairy's castle in misery as the reason some of them were trying to run from the dimensional portal became clear.

"Having a party without us?" Kaos called out cheerily, stepping through the portal, blazing with cold. "That's not sporting!"

"Complain to the Auditors who brought us here," Susan shouted back, kicking away the fallen club and an Auditor-wolf with it.

"Save a few for us," Albert added, following through the gate behind Kaos. Lu-tze, Greebo, Binky and the Death of Rats arrived as well, ready to lay into the Auditors. The distraught, hungover Auditors looked ready to be laid into – at least one of them threw itself onto Kaos' sword and ceased to exist voluntarily. Another skewered itself onto one of Vetinari's daggers and did the same.

"What a sad, pathetic bunch o' buggers," Kaos said, holding his blade out steady so more of them could self-terminate. "No hope at all."

It was true – for most of the Auditor-wolves. Whether from the effect of hangover or the desertion by their Leader or simple inability to cope with all the sensory input their in-the-flesh bodies now exposed them to, they had a raggedy quality. Not all of them were obligingly giving up – several still snarled and snapped. The fight had not entirely gone out of them, but it was like a thing left in the ice chest too long that had started to get moldy.

"Don't let your guard down," Susan warned.

However many had been slain, there were still hundreds of Auditors. They were miserable, and miserable creatures are the most dangerous kind.

"I cannot feel too sorry for beings who are trying to bring about the end of the world and everyone and everything in it," Vetinari said, fending off and dispatching another half-hearted attacker. "Might I suggest, Master Malich, that now would be an excellent time to attempt my plan?"

Albert nodded, and with a glance over to Kaos, whose grin took on a vicious edge, rolled up his sleeves as his arms began to glow with power.

"Right," the elderly wizard murmured. "Hail, hail the gang's all here and that. Now," he glared at the snarling, wretched Auditor wolves, "which one of you rotters wants to go first?"

The Auditor-wolf that had attacked Violet was still knocked flat, but another Auditor-wolf with a gleam of menace left crouched low and then made a leap at Albert's throat. It was an impressive leap, but not quite impressive or fast enough. Albert Malich was a very old wizard who knew a thing or two about dead men's shoes. Wizards, like swordsmen, get to be very old only one way – by being very, very good at what they do.2 Before the wolf's jaws were halfway to their target, Albert's spell struck first. A green aura enveloped the creature's body, twisting, transforming and shrinking it. As the Auditor's shape began to change, a second glowing aura, blue and cold, surrounded the green one – an energy that came not from Albert's hands but from the icy sword of Kaos. Kaos slashed his blade in a circular motion, sending a wave of force that picked up Albert's spell and spread it outward, shooting the through everything, yet striking only Auditors, striking every single one of them all at once. Every Auditor as far as the eye could see began to shift, morphing and shrinking. Their tails lost fur, turning naked and pink underneath the green glow. Wolf claws and paws became small and scrabbling, canine teeth shifted position, yellow and blunter in tinier mouths. Whiskers jutted out at a sharp angle, twitching, eyes becoming dark and beady. The Auditor who had attacked Albert landed at his feet with a thud.

"Squeak?" it asked.

SQUEAK! the Death of Rats answered.

If the Auditor-rat had known what a tone of outraged indignation was, it would have recognized it now and possibly moved out of the way of the scythe slicing toward it. But it did not know. A moment later the scythe was raised again as the Horserat of the Apocalypse mounted his steed to ride out against the foe. Still hungry, Greebo didn't even notice the unaccustomed extra weight on his back. Transformed Auditors were scurrying everywhere and Greebo had never seen so many snacktoys in his life!

[* * * *]

1 That is to say, attempted to stagger, a difficult movement indeed for a discorporeal, levitating being and others. It is common knowledge that the very best staggerers in the Discworld are to be found at the Mended Drum, where apprentice and journeymen drunks train long and hard for the singular honor of being included in the Drum's highly choreographed and famous tavern brawls. The role of Staggerer at the Drum, while not quite as coveted as Table Tosser or Defenestratee, can earn a licensed troublemaker very handsome tips from the tourists and a large amount of negotiable affection.

2 In Rincewind's case, running and screaming may eventually qualify, particularly running.


	40. Accomplishing the Impossible

_This definitely wasn't any fun_ , Moist thought as sweat and possibly a few other things dripped down his face and miscellaneous body parts. He ought to know – Moist had done a great many fun things in his life and this wasn't one of them. In fact, he considered as he carefully shifted his left foot from one precarious foothold to the next, hanging over a stinking pool of instant death with a six-stone child tied onto his back was rapidly becoming his least favorite form of hanging of all and that said a _lot_. He couldn't afford to fail now. If he did, it wouldn't be just his own life he lost, and that made the situation unbearable. Finger by aching finger, he slid his right hand along the slimy pipe over his head to find the next juncture point, the next grip that would bring him and the little boy – _not flipping little enough!_ – inches closer to safety. Okay, now the left hand, slowly, slowly. What the hell did Vimes and his wife feed this kid anyway? Marble blocks? Ship anchors? Right foot next, just a little more.

"nnn nnn nnnnn nn nnnnnn," he heard in the distance. When he'd made his climb over to the boy's crumbling ledge, Moist had been buoyed by shouts of encouragement from the Watch. Now the only sound he could hear clearly was his own blood pulsing and thumping in his ears. At least the child wasn't crying or thrashing or squirming in any way, terrifying as this must be for him – brave little bugger, Young Stoneface, obeying Moist's orders to keep still and hang on for dear life. What was it they'd been shouting at him? Oh yes – _You can do it!_ So he'd better go and do it then, hadn't he? Mustn't contradict the Ankh-Morpork City Watch – if he got himself and Vimes' son dissolved to death, they'd definitely arrest him for a thing like that . . . .

Right hand again, farther, farther . . . .

"He isn't going to make it!"

"Shut up!"

Vimes didn't know which two of his officers were murmuring at the back near the tunnel, but he couldn't agree more with the second one's command.

"C'mon, Lipwig, you can do it," he whispered for maybe the fiftieth time. Carrot and some of the others had shouted it out, but Vimes' throat was so dry and tight he could barely manage the whisper. Where the hell were the wizards when you needed them? Vimes might have hated magic, but he'd have given his entire fortune for one good levitation spell right now. So close and so far - ! Lipwig was slowing down, barely moving, Vimes could see that. The man looked ready to drop. There had to be something, anything, Vimes could do to help save his son. Carrot was reaching his arms up as if to catch Young Sam and his rescuer. The captain was a big, tall man, already closer to the edge of the artificial pond than common sense dictated . . . and he was almost as strong as a troll . . . if only he could reach out a little farther . . . .

"Any of you," Vimes found his voice and turned to his officers, "anyone else got a rope?"

One of them did and handed it over. Vimes wrapped one end of it around his waist, handed the other end back to the crowd of Watch members and made his way back toward Captain Carrot.

"I wouldn't recommend trusting the safety railings in this place," Vimes told him, trying to judge how solid the ledge they were standing on was. "But if I anchor you, do you think you really could reach up and grab them?"

Carrot nodded without taking his eyes off of the pair on the cave ceiling.

"If they get a little closer, yes. It's still up to Mr. Lipwig." Carrot called out to the climbing man again. "You can do it, Sir!"

With the Watch officers picking up on what Vimes was trying to do, they all grabbed onto the rope and kept it taut as Vimes and Carrot got into position at the very edge of the ledge, right up against its corroded railing. Vimes wrapped his arms around Carrot's midriff, braced his legs and tried as hard as he could not to inhale too much of the small from the liquid in front of them. If this edge broke off, they might both go in, but Vimes would try with all his strength to hurl Carrot back toward safety if he could. Maybe the Watch would be able to pull him out on the rope while some of him was still left too, if the rope didn't dissolve. But the biggest risk of all was being taken by a man Vimes had arrested more than once.

A man who had stopped moving . . . .

"nnnnn can nnnnn it nnnnnn!"

The voice sounded close, but Moist still couldn't make out what it was saying. He wasn't sure he could even hear the pounding in his ears anymore. His vision was starting to get blurry – no, it _was_ blurry already, way past started. He'd never felt so tired before, not that he could remember. Just a little farther, he tried to tell himself. Find the rhythm, right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot – which was he supposed to be on again? He'd paused to take a deep breath and the stench rising from below had stunned him. He'd managed to keep his hold on the slippery pipes, barely. But his strength was all used up. He didn't dare let go and he couldn't move forward. Another goblin potion, that was what he needed. He licked his dry lips trying to remember the taste of that last one. It had tasted like hope . . . .

 _Little flashes of sparkly stuff . . . every color of the rainbow and no one color, all of them at once . . . sparks jumping, bouncing, dancing . . . up, up, up . . . rising through the heaviness, the pressure, the wet . . . up toward the light . . . breaking the surface . . . floating toward the day . . . like morning mist . . . ._

"Just a little closer, Sir! That's it!" Carrot encouraged, leaning as far forward as the bravest man would have dared.

 _Come on, come on_ , Vimes thought as hard as he could. _Damn it man, you're nearly there!_ He let Carrot do the bellowing for both while he braced the big captain and the Watch kept their tight grip on the rope. His heart had felt like stopping when the pair on the ceiling had. But then Lipwig had begun moving toward them again. He'd gotten a second wind from somewhere and was now only a short distance from Carrot's outstretched hands. Almost . . . almost . . . closer . . . a little bit more . . . lower . . . _now!_

Vimes felt the jerking motion as Carrot made contact and held on for all he was worth. With a strangled cry of pain or relief, Moist released his grip on the overhead pipes and dropped into Carrot's grasp with Young Sam still attached. As the ledge railing began to give way, Vimes yanked them all back and held fast as the Watch officers reeled them in. Safe!

"Dad!" Young Sam exclaimed as soon as he and his exhausted rescuer were back on solid ground. Less than a minute later Vimes wrapped his son in a fierce bear hug as the rope ties were undone.

 _I am going to ground this child until he is sixteen, but not right now_ , Vimes thought. _Thank you, thank you, thank you . . . ._

[-]


	41. A Villain's Comedownance

He knew he shouldn't be there. He knew he was on a fool's mission or worse. But he was a Snike and a Snike does not suffer defeat gladly. He might not have been declared the rightful ruler of Ankh-Morpork – yet – however he could enjoy his revenge on the insolent excuse of a Watch Commander who'd gotten in his way.

Melborn Snike snuck his way along one of the many tunnel corridors that led to the giant pool of tannery waste. By now the little Vimes brat should be almost dropped in the drink if it hadn't happened already. With any luck, that idiot Quirke or one of Snike's other hints had led the Watch down a parallel tunnel so they could watch the boy die. It wasn't enough though. Snike wanted to see the hated enemy crushed for himself. As he fingered the crossbow he'd had such recent practice with, Snike reflected on how he might do a bit of additional crushing. Yes, Vimes would be there – _had_ to be in the cave, devastated and distracted. There might never be a better opportunity for a fatal shot. After that, who knew what might happen? Snike was still a man of resources. If he could eliminate the Watch's leader, crush its spirit, escape through the tunnels and round up more followers, well, he'd prove two-faced doubty Downey wrong. Victory could still be his! He almost pictured it . . . .

First he longed to hear that sweetest sound of all, his enemy's despair. He couldn't do that where he was – the tunnels distorted sound too much. Snike was sure he'd heard the Watch's shouts, muffled. They were down here somewhere, all right, in a parallel tunnel. The damn place was honeycombed with corridors but they all led to the same destination. Now the tunnels would lead him, Lord Snike, to destiny. The Watch would never see him coming. The rightful ruler of Ankh-Morpork would have a reckoning at last. Confidently he forged ahead.

Snike did his best to keep his nostrils closed, his eyes and ears open with the stench and the green cave glow intensifying ahead of him. But something was wrong, or rather not wrong enough. The sounds of shouting from the Watch had continued, growing stronger as well. Yet they weren't what he'd expected at all – not groans of horror, but whooping and . . . cheering? What kind of men did Vimes have on his staff? Or did they all hate their Commander and his poisonous little offspring as much as Snike himself did?

Snike readied the crossbow and, keeping his back to the tunnel wall, peered out into the large central cavern. No sight of anyone near the toxic pond's edge – no sight of the child or the ledge he'd been on at the far side either. But Snike could hear a celebration going on right nearby. He'd have no choice but to step out of his own tunnel to get a better view. To get off his shot, his destiny. He advanced.

 _Not possible!_

 _Not acceptable!_

Snike had not been planning to drop his guard or his jaw. How . . . ?

 _An outrage!_

Vimes, thrice damned Vimes _was_ there in the midst of a crowd of his officers – and he had his at least twice damned and dratted child with him! It shouldn't be! It _couldn't_ be! But somehow it was. How could such a calamity have happened? Then Snike looked over to the side of the cavern and had his answer. That _other_ nemesis was here – that . . . that . . . pestilent _Postmaster_! Somehow he'd had something to do with this. The man was covered in sweat and propped up between two Watch officers who were congratulating him on pulling off the impossible. No question what the impossible feat was. Damn them! Damn him! Spoiling Lord Snike's perfect plan – _again_! Wretched von Lipwig was as bad an obstacle to Snike's rise to power as Vimes – maybe worse. If he hadn't had the nerve to be so popular . . . if he'd just stayed an obliging victim like he was supposed to . . . .

Lipwig was a much easier target than Vimes right now, Snike noticed . . . . Yes, and wasn't he really the first bit of prey in the grand scheme anyway? He should be the first to die.

Snike raised his crossbow and aimed.

It all happened so fast and so slow – time standing still while racing or only seeming to? Vimes wasn't a man accustomed to letting his own guard down and shouldn't have here, of all places. He hadn't been looking for any more trouble now that he had his son back. But there it was. He saw Lord Snike appear on a neighboring ledge as if from nowhere, saw him pointing a crossbow straight at Moist von Lipwig. In the midst of a jumble, arms full of boy, Vimes would never be able to stop Snike in time. He tried to call out a warning even as Moist saw the danger materialize right in front of him, too exhausted to leap out of the way or raise a hand to defend himself.

"You annoying, little _!" Snike hissed, pulling the trigger and letting the bolt fly.

The deadly steel-tipped projectile struck – but not its intended target. In that frozen, forever moment, faster than the bolt flying, Carrot Ironfoundersson, supporting Moist with one hand and holding his helmet in the other had reached out to block the shot. The bolt glanced off Carrot's improvised helmet shield and arced at a downward angle in the direction it had come from, to land with a solid thunk in Snike's boot. The shaft penetrated more than just the boot. With a screech of pain and shock, Ankh-Morpork's would-be conqueror hopped and danced backward as if to get away from his own foot, heedless of how close he was to the rusting bit of railing behind him. The railing didn't manage to be heedless of him. It crumbled under the impact of his purple velvet-covered bulk and tumbled into the caustic pond a second or two before Snike himself, screaming all the way, followed. With the crossbow and a loud splash, Melborn Snike disappeared.

So fast, so slow . . . .

And then time snapped back to normal all at once. Vimes felt his breath uncatch. The lance constable nearest the pond's edge looked into it and turned his face away quickly. There would be no saving this attacker, or even a body. No hand rose up from the sludge to grab onto. Vimes held Young Sam's head to keep him from seeing what had happened, but watched on his own as the bubbles and ripples faded.

 _That's what he intended for my son . . . ._

Vimes tried to force the thought away, like the bile he felt rising in his throat. The lance constable backed away to the cave's entrance and had started to vomit. Moist appeared ready to faint but Carrot remained his more usual, disturbingly unruffled self. The Captain glanced around in case more threats materialized, but seeing none, placed the dented helmet back on his head and led Moist toward the tunnel.

"Is it over now?" Carrot asked.

 _Is anything ever over?_

"Lord Snike is," Vimes nodded, face grim. "Let's get out of here."

Because he was carrying his son, Vimes didn't wait to be the last one out, but none of them lingered, not even the usual scab-pickers who found it hard to resist the sight of a demise. Almost only the stench stayed behind.

Moist, still trembling with exhaustion and perhaps emotion, didn't have to worry about hiking back up to the surface under his own steam. The hero of the hour was carried out on the shoulders of jubilant Watch officers. They'd have carried Captain Carrot too, but by mutual agreement Carrot was responsible for carrying himself.1 The whole group paraded back through the exit of an access point located in one of Ankh-Morpork's many long-abandoned under-cellars just in time to encounter an annoyed-looking woman with another loaded crossbow.

"I've already had my daily allowance, thanks," Moist said, holding a hand up in surrender lest his wife point the weapon at him.

"Oh?" Adora fixed him with a stare that contained a few bolts of its own but lowered the crossbow. "So what's all this?" She gestured at the officers bearing him up. "It's an improvement over handcuffs, but . . . ."

Several people tried to answer her at once and in the resulting confusion no one noticed the 'plick, plick' sounds coming from overhead as they made their way back toward the city streets. But the noise and the reasons for it became evident as soon as the group emerged into daylight.

Rats were raining from the sky.

[* * * *]

Life, if that's what it could still be called, was less fun without a body, Threepshaw decided. Oh, he still had a little bit of body left – mostly just a skeleton with a few buttons and bits of whatnot showing through the bones. But he didn't seem to be able to _do_ much of anything with it. He couldn't go anywhere, couldn't pick up objects or swim his way out of his predicament. The only activity he still had was lookingat the murky, junk-filled liquid all around him, though he supposed that was impressive considering his eyeballs had been among the first bits to dissolve. His ears were still working too somehow despite his lack of them. He heard a loud splash from up above and a new pair of objects sank down into his field of vision. One was a crossbow of good make, a Burleigh and Stronginthearm Octeday night special. Threepshaw used to admire such crossbows, though he didn't feel particularly fond of them now.

The next, much larger object to drift to the bottom was a man, still twitching a little. Although the newcomer was already starting to melt away, his bearded face and rich purple clothing lasted just long enough for Threepshaw to recognize him.

"Ere now!" Threepshaw yelled at the man, "y'er the bloke what shot me!"

[* * * *]

1 Hernias being such tricky things to cope with. The self-carrying rule usually applies to the troll members of the Watch as well, and any dwarf officer who objects on the grounds of being made to feel like a _b'zugda hiara_.


	42. Precipitous Actions

In a universe full of mortal perils and obvious warning signs, countless trillions of creatures have evolved with the ability to recognize threats to their existence. Then there was Mr. Hamish Horsefry III.1 Mr. Hamish Horsefry III did not understand the meaning of the word danger. He didn't understand the meaning of gravity either, though danger and gravity both _were_. What Mr. Hamish Horsefry III did understand was that a great deal of money could be made by smelting large gobs of metal and pouring them into molds that turned them into different shaped gobs of metal. Any child could understand that. The gobs didn't have have to be of particularly good quality – no need for fancy dwarf craft. Cities and speculators all across the Disc were so eager to build themselves new railways that they'd buy anything that even looked like a proper rail, without giving much inspection. Pop together a few quick smelting shops, pop out stacks of rail that were cheaper than the other fellow's stacks and you didn't have to search for customers – they'd practically come crawling to you. A manufacturer could rake up money these days the way an Effing cottager raked up leaves. Simple.

Dangerous? Perhaps it was for the employees who worked in the smelting shops, but who really cared about _them_? Mr. Hamish Horsefry III didn't. Employees could always be replaced. They were cheaper than the gobs of metal, especially the orphaned youngsters he could pay with not much more than a crust of bread and a cup of weak beer. So it was silly for a couple of pointy-hatted wizards and their pet to think they could order him to clean up, relocate or even shut down some of his smelting shops. Not bloody likely!

"See here," the railmonger harrumphed, buffing his immaculate fingernails, "even if I believed this so-called Discal Tilt Theory of yours, it's got nothing to do with me. I'm engaged in an honorable working man's trade, not a lot of mumbo jumbo."

Four of five assembled wizards gasped in astonishment. One wizard did not. Mr. Hamish Horsefry III had angered Professor Hix, which was unwise. He had outraged the Librarian, which was worse. But Professor Hix, the Librarian, Professor Macarona and Rincewind all ducked for cover behind the Luggage because Archchancellor Ridcully was smiling – beaming, in fact. He got so few opportunities for practical demonstrations these days. The other wizards knew that particular smile all too well.

Mr. Hamish Horsefry III was about to gain a much greater understanding of pointy hats, danger, gravity and accommodation.

And patterns began to change . . . .

[* * * *]

"Where the devil are they all coming from?" Vimes shouted above the din as dead rats poured from cloudless (if not smogless) skies seemingly out of nowhere. The scene above Ankh-Morpork's subterranean depths had devolved into more chaos. The earlier candy-and-frosting storm had been bad enough, but now dwarves and goblins were barreling though the streets in a frenzy to scoop up as much of the unexpected windfall as possible. Not _just_ dwarves and goblins either, Vimes realized as he spotted a familiar figure in the jumble.

"Remind me not to eat any sausages in the next few weeks," he said before adding, "better make that months."

Still holding onto Young Sam, he took refuge under a nearby awning as the other Watch officers, Moist and Adora did likewise.

"Sybil was right again," Vimes groaned. "I shouldn't have said anything about what could happen next."

Moist didn't appear alarmed about the unusual weather, or at least not alarmed enough.

"I'm just glad you didn't suggest it'd rain hipp-mmmphh!" His words cut off abruptly as Adora clamped a hand over her reckless spouse's mouth.

"Complete that sentence, Moist von Lipwig, and you'll be sleeping under the sofa again for a week! Understand?"

Moist nodded and murmured "Yeph, D'r," before she took her hand away.

"Er, _under_ the sofa?" Vimes asked in a whisper a few seconds later while Adora was dashing toward the next awning.

"Yes," Moist whispered back. "And Mrs. Crossley had a job getting the bolts out and sewing up the cushions after the last time, trust me!" Moist was chuckling as he said it. Vimes couldn't tell if he was being kidded or not. But since the closest thing he'd had to a honeymoon had resulted in Vimes being hunted and nearly eaten by werewolves, he wasn't going to speculate on what happened in anyone else's marriage.

They were kept busy and on the move as overhangs filled up not just with dead rats but the goblins seeking them, and more than one or two failed to hold up under the onslaught. At last the pest-filled precipitation came to an end as the sunny skies ran out of rats. Within minutes, in true Ankh-Morpork fashion, the bounty had vanished as if it never existed and the streets returned to oddmancy.2

"Sam!" a familiar, beloved voice called from behind Vimes and became a shriek of joy as he turned around and Sybil ran to him and the boy in his arms. Young Sam, who had been in-shock passive up to that point, squirmed his way out of Vimes' grasp and ran to his mother just as eagerly. For one long, too short moment the three of them formed a big hug clump in the street. Vimes didn't know how Sybil had found them so quickly and he didn't care. There would be time for words and questions later. Right now he was content to hold his wife and child and let them simply _be_.

 _Nuts to the mansions and the Dukedom_ , he thought. _This is why I'm rich_.

It was Captain Carrot who tactfully interrupted the three of them a few minutes later after holding up traffic to suggest that they move someplace safer. It was also Carrot who informed Lady Sybil of Melborn Snike's demise. As delighted as she was to have her son back safely and one threat to the city resolved, her face grew somber.

"We aren't out of the woods yet, are we Sam." It was a statement, not a question.

Vimes sighed, but no longer tried to hide his worry even as he tousled Young Sam's sandy brown hair.

"No. We've still got no Patrician if Vetinari doesn't snap out of it soon. Probably a bunch more contenders no better than Snike besides." But what worried him as much now was the unknown something that he couldn't give voice to. He didn't really believe that he'd caused the rain of rats – predicted it maybe. But he was a copper, not a wizard. He hadn't said anything to cause or predict the candy torrent, the broomstick malfunctions or ground quakes either. Yet there was no denying that something was Wrong, the kind of Wrong that started with a big capital letter. Sybil evidently felt it too. A sense that the world was out-of-control somehow, out of order. If it was, where did that leave all of them? Like Carrot had said earlier, it was useless to spend life obsessing over 'what ifs,' but something somewhere had better be done about something else. If only Vimes knew what it was . . . .

[* * * *]

1 And also sheep.

2 Normalcy not being something generally known in the Big Wahoonie.


	43. Confronting the Lead Auditor

"So Banjo Lilywhite is the Tooth Fairy?" Vetinari tried to wrap his mind around this new concept, all the while wondering if even the most flexible of mindsets could suffer whiplash or at least the occasional sprain.

"Yes. Because the Bogeyman who was the Tooth Fairy died, you see."

He didn't, but he'd have to take Susan's word for it, as he already had for so many other things.

"You realize," Susan said, "when and if you get back to your life, you mustn't tell anyone."

"I have no intention of doing so." It was true. Vetinari had no particular fondness for insane asylums, aside from the realm of politics. He would barely have believed himself the adventure he was embarked on, or what was at stake.

The trip back through the portal from the Tooth Fairy's castle to the dark, starry plain had been made difficult by the fugitive they were pursuing. The Lead Auditor had attempted to close the gateway behind itself, as futile as that effort was in keeping Susan from following. But their group was smaller now and had no trouble fitting into Kaos' chariot. Albert, the Death of Rats, Binky and Greebo had stayed behind for the mopup efforts with Banjo, Violet and the oh god. That left Vetinari, Susan, Lu-Tze and Kaos to tackle their last, most dangerous foe. Countless numbers of Auditors had been destroyed, to such extent that countless numbers more had not shown up to replace them. The Lead Auditor might well be alone if that was a state it was even capable of understanding. None of its four pursuers had any doubt about where it was headed. They didn't need a trail of breadcrumbs to follow, or the trail they found, which was more horrible.

 _You . . . must . . . stop . . . it . . . ._

The crimson Auditor had not turned corporeal, not exactly. It hadn't popped out of existence either. Yet it did not float above the plain in the manner of its kind. It was no longer a robe full of nothing, but rather a robe full of _something_. Something wounded from which the essence was ebbing away, bleeding itself out.

 _You . . . must . . . stop . . . it . . . ._

A not-empty crimson sleeve pointed in the direction they were already going, back toward the section of the eternal plain that contained the floating magic book and the four spell-frozen Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The pain in that gesture as obvious to all of them. As essence of _something_ continued to ebb away, the not-quite-empty cowl tilted up toward Susan in supplication. Susan did not protest or look away, but stepped out of the chariot to tend to the unspoken task. In a place without time, she reached forward and vanished – or seemed to. Yet she did not vanish also. It was more as if she gave the impression of a blink, and then reappeared looking down at a crimson robe that was now definitively empty. In that instant, Vetinari felt the temptation to look away, but resisted. He did not move aside or shudder as she walked back toward him, even though he felt there was something vaguely un-Susan about her.

"Let's go," she said, voice a bit lower, deeper. "Grandfather needs his job back."

But it was the un-Susan part of Susan that had to deal with the next wounded crimson Auditor they found along their path, and the one after that. Each in its own turn pleaded not for release for itself first, but for the Lead Auditor to be stopped.

"Funny buggers," Kaos grinned as they came across a fourth crimson Auditor leaking out its essence and pointing the group onward. "Not like I figured them at all."

There was nothing funny about them to Vetinari, or evidently to Susan. Lu-Tze remained his inscrutable self in the face of slaughter.

"How is it that one Auditor is killing so many others?" Vetinari asked. "How is the Lead Auditor doing this?"

"Ruthlessness," Susan answered. "The Lead Auditor has it, the others don't. If they've got one great, gaping weakness, it's lack of imagination. Most of them can't even conceive of what their Leader is doing right now, so they're unprepared to cope with it. Mr. White murdered some of his fellow Auditors with an axe when they became embodied. Some fled him, but not all, and they didn't fight back. They didn't know how to."

Vetinari tried to imagine lacking even the imagination to flee or fight for survival. He couldn't. Susan's explanation went a long way toward his understanding why the creatures hadn't been able to manage any better subterfuge that the pathetic transformations they'd already faced. But it was all the more humbling and infuriating to realize that an Auditor had been able to get the better of _him_.

Consciously or unconsciously, Susan gave a quiet hiss of rage in Vetinari's ears as they came into view of the place where the Four Horsemen still stood frozen and the spell book hovered. No – not spellbook – _books_. A second, larger magical tome floated in empty space next to the first and the Lead Auditor hovered in front of this additional book, armless sleeves gesturing.

"What's it doing?" Susan whispered. They had their answer as Kaos' chariot halted with a lurch that nearly sent them tumbling out. They looked back at Kaos not knowing what he was up to, but the frozen, startled expression on his helmed face made it clear that he wasn't up to anything at all. His cold-wreathed horse in front of the chariot stood just as motionless as he did.

"Oh no, not you too now," she said to the stilled Fifth Horseman.

 _Yes. Him too._

The Lead Auditor turned from the book, gestures completed, to unface them.

 _Did you not think We would find a solution to Kaos' interference? It was only a matter of locating the correct Book._

"You still say 'we' rather than using the singular," Vetinari responded, climbing out of the stationary chariot. "I wonder if that is entirely correct."

The Lead Auditor appeared to ignore him and kept its unstare fixed on Susan. Vetinari chose not to be ignored.

"Your plan would seem to have more than a few flaws in it," he continued as he walked toward the robed figure. "Not the least of which is that even if you triumph, I doubt you'll have very much cause to enjoy it all by yourself." That at least got a reaction.

 _We are never alone. There are always more of Us. Always._

"Except that doesn't seem to be the case right now, does it?" Susan stepped out of the chariot next and began moving in on the Lead Auditor herself. "You haven't got any followers left."

 _We do not need followers._

"Don't 'we'? I notice," Susan said as she advanced, "that it's all the others who've done the fighting, the real work. They're the ones who have ceased to exist for a mad dream."

 _It isn't mad and it isn't a dream. It will be a reality._

"Not if I can help it," Susan vowed.

"Not if _we_ can help it," Vetinari added, striding forward with her step for step. "The numbers appear to be on our side this time."

The Lead Auditor did nothing to retreat.

 _We are more powerful than you. We are not afraid of you. It is you who should be afraid of us._

"Yet we are not," Vetinari told it, allowing himself the slightest of smiles. "We have something you don't have. Something you perhaps never can have." Death had told Vetinari – was it really such a short time ago? – that he was free of the Auditors' influence in this place. Now he would find out if that were true.

 _That sword?_

The Lead Auditor gestured toward the weapon in Susan's hand.

 _I could take that from you anytime I want._

You could _try_ , Susan's expression seemed to say as she grasped the hilt with both hands. Her eyes darkened and the forbidding scowl of a teacher determined to protect her students from harm merged with the grinning outline of the skull underneath. Her hair and her cloak rippled in an unfeelable breeze. The embodiment of Death itself was here and it was pissed.

But the Lead Auditor was not intimidated. As if to demonstrate its ability, one empty sleeve beckoned for the Sword and its blade jerked in Susan's grasp pulled by an unseen tendril. She maintained her grip on the pommel but beads of sweat formed on her forehead with the effort even in this chill place.

 _Foolish mostly mortal, do you think You can stand against me?_

"Of course she does," Vetinari said, attempting to distract the Auditor once more. "Because she's mostly mortal and because we still have what you do not. I wasn't referring to the Sword."

Once again the distraction gambit worked. The Lead Auditor did not entirely ease the invisible hold on Susan's weapon, but it eased while this second foe was faced.

 _If not the sword, then what?_ The disembodied voice demanded.

"You don't have any idea, do you?" Vetinari smiled and shook his head. "No. Of course you wouldn't. You can't get inside my head anymore, can you? Not here. Not now."

Susan gasped and recoiled as the Lead Auditor's tug-of-war pull vanished, and struggled to keep on her feet. Vetinari had the Lead Auditor's full attention, or the limits of its power did. It had encountered something it couldn't do.

 _What do you have?_

Vetinari's only response was a quizzically raised eyebrow and that same slight, knowing smile.

 _What can you possibly have?_

 _What can any mortal have of worth?_

The empty robe quivered with agitation. It hovered over the dark, starry plain toward Vetinari.

 _Tell me!_

"You're even easier to bait than Vimes," Vetinari commented. "Not that it takes much, really."

 _You must tell me!_

"Must I?"

 _Yes._

The Lead Auditor stretched out its empty sleeve toward Vetinari as it had toward the Sword of Death.

"Careful," Susan warned, stepping between them. But then the unexpected happened.

Nothing.

The Auditor gestured again more emphatically – and more nothing happened. Vetinari, who hadn't taken up a defensive stance, stood there bemused. If he too was surprised by the sudden non-occurrence he didn't show it. The same could not be said for his would-be assailant. The empty grey robe now shook with visible effort. The empty grey cowl furrowed. It almost looked worried.

"Perhaps I am not as weak a link as I thought," Vetinari said. "I am not as weak a link as _you_ thought either."

 _Of course you are. You are mortal. Mortals are weak._

"Are we? We've already managed to defeat most of your kind, several times over. But it isn't just us. I've realized what the crimson Auditors have that you do not. Why they aren't governed by a fear of life and the unknown the way you are. It is because we all have the greatest treasure."

 _Tell me!_

The Lead Auditor quivered with what might have been rage or frustration, but it did not stay directed at Vetinari. Without warning, all of its energy and focus shot back to the Sword in Susan's hands with more force than before.

"Nougat!" she yelled.

The Sword was not pried from her grasp – she went flying toward the Auditor with it. But the blade portion of it was turned aside before she could strike. Then, with that same power, the Auditor sent her and the Sword flying at Vetinari like an arrow. Vetinari dodged the Sword blade easily too, but as he reached out to Susan to cushion her landing and twisted, the frozen hourglass once more fell out of his robes and landed onto the dark plain, rolling away from him.

 _Aha!_

The Lead Auditor's mental cry of triumph was so strong it almost had the quality of sound. With the power of what the Auditor was it rematerialized itself beside the fallen hourglass faster than Susan and Vetinari could reach it.

 _Now I will know the truth or I will eradicate you – all of you._

The Auditor reached a sleeve down toward the lifetimer, but as it did so a golden glow surrounded the object. The Auditor's sleeve drew back as if burned. Its triumphant posture slumped as it reached for the hourglass again and the glow became even stronger, repelling it. Susan had tensed to launch another attack, but Vetinari stood stock still, watching as the lifetimer preserved itself.

"You can't do everything after all," Vetinari stated as the Lead Auditor made one unsuccessful attempt after another to reach through to the hourglass inside the aura. "But you tried, didn't you?" He was not gloating or grinning any longer, and there was no mistaking the anger in his voice. The sometime-Patrician's imperturbable expression revealed a shadow of quiet fury underneath.

 _It is not possible!_

The Lead Auditor's efforts were becoming frantic as empty sleeves scrabbled in the space surrounding the golden glow.

"It is entirely possible. You are proving it right now," Vetinari observed, "to your detriment."

The base of the Auditor's grey robe, already translucent, began to fade still more.

"Miss Susan," Vetinari said, "I suspect we need at least one of these creatures to break the spells on your grandfather and his fellow horsemen. May I suggest we do it quickly?"

Without further hesitation, Vetinari rushed at the distracted and disappearing Lead Auditor and grabbed it by the foresleeve. The Auditor no longer attempted to fight him off as he grabbed it, but kept a focus on the glowing, golden lifetimer even as Vetinari began dragging it toward the nearest of the two floating spellbooks. The Lead Auditor's confidence appeared to be vanishing along with the base of its robe.

 _How? How is this happening?_

"You might better ask why." The angry edge returned to Vetinari's voice. "You _used_ me – you used _me_!"

Susan approached, Sword raised, but did not strike as Vetinari pulled the Lead Auditor along.

"I can't say I understand either," she said.

"It broke the Rules." Vetinari glared. "Really broke them, and in a very big way – using me! But not because I let them." He shook the Auditor's robe for a moment as well as tugging on it. "I remembered the night that _this_ Auditor came into my life. I was drunk, drunk as a skunk," Vetinari confessed, "and far more easy to trick than usual. But not so easy that I agreed to put myself in their power and let them do with me as they wished! Oh no, not that! I merely offered to keep an open mind to them and that is all." With one more fierce tug he yanked on the Lead Auditor's sleeve so that they were an arm's length from the older, larger floating spellbook. "That's the real reason I'm here, isn't it? The reason you don't have any power over me now? Because you used me far past the point you were allowed to when I was still alive. So now it is time to do a bit of using back." Vetinari turned toward Susan. "Give it your sword."

"What?"

"The sword." Vetinari nodded toward the spellbook. "The Auditors placed some sort of preventative measure that keeps _us_ from interfering with their spell, but they must be able to affect it themselves and I intend to make this one do so." He got behind the Auditor and grabbed its other sleeve.

 _No!_ the Lead Auditor's 'voice' shouted in their heads. That desperate, disembodied wail was more effective than any other persuasion Vetinari might have tried. Susan latched onto the Auditor herself – it felt rather like trying to hold onto slippery smoke – and forced the hilt of the weapon in between the two not-empty sleeves. Vetinari clutched the Auditor's invisible 'hands' tight, making them hold on. He and Susan raised the invisible arms –

 _No! No! No no no no –_

\- and brought the blade of the Sword of Death crashing down on the floating spellbook.

 _no no no_

The result was an impressive splitting of whatever energies shielded the book held it active and aloft, and the book itself. Bifurcated metal binding and covers crashed to the plain beneath them. Luminous pages, now separated, drifted down, losing their luster and in some cases their symbols and writing as the ancient book died. Susan nodded to something Vetinari couldn't see and disappeared from his sight herself for just a fragment of a moment. A chill wind filled the air around them, and a short distance away the horse in front of Kaos' chariot gave a startled snort.

"Now for the other one" Vetinari told Susan. "Quickly!"

 _No! No! No!_

The Lead Auditor's fadeout was accelerating, with every portion of robe below what should have been the waist area gone. Holding onto the slithering near-nothingness with all their might, Vetinari and Susan yanked the increasingly disembodied sleeves and cowl close enough to the first floating spellbook for the Sword to be within striking distance.

"I'm against this sort of activity on principal," Vetinari noted, "but in this instance principal be-"

"somethinged," Susan supplied as they both forced the Lead Auditor's 'arms' with the Sword held between them back into the air and brought the blade slashing down one more time.

 _No! No! Nooooo!_

As the blade came down on this spellbook, the energies and symbols it contained appeared to leap off the pages a moment before impact. Eldritch fires fled rather than fought to escape their fate, though it was not at all clear, here, where they could escape to. Like golden fireworks, they popped and crackled in the infinite space above Vetinari and Susan before fading away one sparkle at a time. The blade impacted blank sheets of parchment, dry and brittle, and cleaved the ancient binding neatly in two before clattering to the plain on top of the book remnants, which also fell. Susan and Vetinari unclenched fingers that were grasping at nothing. Of the Lead Auditor, there no longer remained even a trace. It had faded away even before the flying, glittering, magical symbols had.

"Poor thing," Susan murmured, touching the book fragments as she knelt to pick up the Sword. "Not its fault that it wound up being misused." She frowned as she stood back up and looked at Vetinari. "That wasn't like the first one. Do you suppose we managed to break the spell?"

A clattering sound in the distance answered the question before Vetinari could make the attempt. The Horsemen of the Apocalypse were moving once more.

[* * * *]


	44. Endings and New Beginnings

_Patterns shifting, magic flowing, dances starting over . . . ._

[* * * *]

"What the devil?" Vimes muttered, holding himself over Young Sam and Sybil to shield them as a brilliant light and fireworks filled the sky. They weren't close enough to the Alchemists' Guild Hall1 that this should be happening. But the flash didn't seem confined to any particular quadrant of the city – it lit up the atmosflat for as far as eyes could see before they started seeing spots. Underneath their feet, the ground quaked with intensity, gave a sudden lurch and then halted, settling into an unmoving state once more. The glare and sparkling pyrotechnics faded, to be replaced only by clear blue sky, which was also disturbing. One didn't usually see clear skies over Ankh-Morpork. Frequently one couldn't see the sky at all. It was an improvement over the rat rain though.

"Is it over?" Sybil asked as they slowly disentwined and felt the solidity of the ground.

"I . . . think so?" Vimes stared up and felt a tingling sensation course through him and then a relaxation in his limbs. It wasn't like the usual post-adrenaline unknotting he'd experienced countless times before. It felt good though, comforting, even warm. From the surprised expressions on their faces, Sybil and Young Sam were feeling it too. It was the sensation that something, somewhere had just gone Right.

[* * * *]

"Ook!" the Librarian hooted and took off, leaving his colleagues in the midst of their batch of newly made frogs.

"Now what do you suppose has gotten into him?" Professor Hicks snarled, kicking aside a few of the frogs.2

None of the wizards, with the exception of Rincewind, had paid much attention to the celestial light show. Such things were par for the course in their experience, or even hole-in-one. But Archchancellor Ridcully wasn't at all disconcerted by the Librarian's desertion. He was much too full of the unaccustomed warm, satisfying feeling of a job well done with minimal destructive force.

"Library matters, I expect." The Archchancellor smiled. It might still take a great deal of time to repair the world's patterns and magical fields, but he sensed it was a possibility. Possibilities were so much easier to work with than probabilities, and if the Disc found itself with fewer industrialists for a time, at least its citizens could be assured that those who remained were a bit wiser.

[* * * *]

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Landing hard.

Where?

The little rat sat up, shook itself and tried to get its bearings. Where was it? A strange, gigantic alleyway of some sort, strewn with rubbish, odds and ends. How had the rat gotten here? It shook itself again, trying to recall. The last thing it could remember . . . wasn't much, but all of that was terrible. Chased – it was being chased by a skeletal version of itself wearing a black robe, holding up a scythe and riding on the back of a terrifying, vicious furry monster. The little rat had sensed that to be caught by them meant the end of itself, and it very much wanted to live.

 _Live! Live! Hope! Hope! Live!_ the little rat had kept shouting to itself as it scurried to escape. It had run as hard as it could, until breath was a struggle and its ears pounded with the sound of its own heartbeat, and still it kept on running - running across stones that were slick with the blood of other rats. Then it found itself trapped in a corner as the skeleton thing and its beast closed in. The skeleton thing had raised its scythe to strike. There should have been no escape, and yet the little rat had flung up its paws and hoped . . . .

That was when the _now_ happened. The little rat remembered the skeleton thing pausing, scythe raised. The skeleton thing had no eyes, yet it seemed to stare right through the little rat to the center of its being.

SQUEAK. the skeleton thing had said. Then, instead of a fatal, severing blow from the scythe, the little rat had received a hard kick from the skeleton instead. And the rat found itself falling . . . .

The fall had become the _now_ , and other than that last terrible memory the little rat could recall nothing of _before_. Before must not have been important.

"Hello," a voice called out, causing the little rat nearly to jump out of its skin. It looked around and saw another rat, a very strange one, also small, with bright white fur and eyes the color of blood.

"Hel . . . lo," the little rat said to the newcomer. It did not sense a threat from the strange white rat, only greeting. But speaking even that much took effort, as if it couldn't quite remember how to talk. The white rat held out a paw in what might be a friendly gesture or curiosity and twitched its ice-white whiskers.

"I am Dangerous Beans," the white rat introduced itself. "I don't believe we've met?"

The little rat knew for a fact that they hadn't and that it ought to introduce itself as well. But who was it, exactly? It tried to remember a name and could not. It would have to come up with something.

"I think . . . ." the little rat said, still struggling with the effort of speech, "I think . . . I am . . . confused."

"Well, Confused, I am very pleased to meet you," the white rat chirped. "Can I show you around? We've got quite a nice place here. Good folks to know too."

The little rat considered. That offer certainly sounded better than running in terror or falling. It must be better than whatever had come before.

"I would . . . like that."

The little rat went off toward the future with its new friend, and hope.

[* * * *]

"I spy with my own eye something br-"

"Boot."

What little was left of Melborn Snike harrumphed in a peeved fashion and glared at what little was left of Threepshaw.

"I hadn't finished giving you the clue yet," Snike complained.

The remains of the remains of Threepshaw shrugged, or tried to.

"Yair, but it was gonner be the boot, wasn't it?"

"Maybe," Snike sniffed. "You can't know since you didn't let me finish the clue, now can you?"

"Well your last three picks have been the boot, so I'm guessing I can."

So far it hadn't been much of a game. Snike had chosen the boot as his object over and over again, and Threepshaw, just to be different, had chosen the candlestick. In truth, the boot might not be a boot, although it was boot shaped, and the candlestick might not be a candlestick either, but their general outlines were distinct. There were plenty of other items scattered about, but it was difficult to make out what they were in the darkness and the muck, especially when one did not, technically, have eyes any longer.

AHEM.

This was hardly a proper place for them to be stuck in, though Snike and Threepshaw didn't seem to be able to go anyplace else. Threepshaw longed to kick away the boot with the foot he did not have, but he couldn't accomplish that. What a load of rubbish. But wait – there was a new item to be made sport of . . . .

"I spy with my own eye something glowing."

"The sword-stick," Snike answered.

"That isn't a sword-stick," Threepshaw objected.

"Sword-stick. Blade thingy, whatever," Snike drawled. "It's the only glowing thing here."

IT IS CALLED A SCYTHE.

"Whatever. At least it's something different than the candlestick. You know, you'd think that there would be a little more cleaning up done around here."

OH, THERE WILL BE.

[* * * *]

He'd been expecting something more, somehow. Not necessarily an explosion or a cataclysm or inanimate objects singing and dancing – he'd never gone in for that cheeky sort of thing. But . . . _something_. Something other than sitting around still in the HOUSE of Death staring at an hourglass' still-frozen dual streams of sand.

Vetinari sighed and considered his position.

Was he still mostly dead? Could he become mostly alive?

Did he have any say in the matter now that his task was done?

Or . . . was it?

Death had told him that he had to create the circumstances whereby he might have a chance of returning to life.

Had he not done that yet?

Perhaps . . . .

Death was certainly preoccupied, as was his granddaughter Susan. The circumstances created by the Auditors of Reality had left them both with a vital task that needed catching up. Likewise the Death of Rats and Death's fellow Horsemen, though Vetinari preferred not to think of them in that way. The other members of what he had come to think of as 'Team Death' seemed content to bide their time in this timeless place – those others being his only company now – Greebo, Albert, and the Sweeper. Well, Albert belonged in this place anyway if Lu-Tze could not or would not stretch out his final seconds to the breaking point. But Greebo? Vetinari?

The sometime-Patrician supposed that Susan could return the unnatural cat to his witch when she got a chance. As for himself . . . .

What had he left undone, besides a crossword puzzle?

Well, many things he'd intended to take care of, naturally, and hadn't gotten around to yet. Wasn't that the case with everybody?

 _More_ , now that he knew the mistakes he'd made while under the influence of the Auditors. Mistakes he would never get the chance to correct?

 _There are always chances._ Death himself had told Vetinari that. And Death was the one person, if he could be called that, who would never, ever lie.

Yet Vetinari got the nagging feeling that there _was_ one more crucial – dare he say vital in this place? – deed that he had neglected. Something more still to do, even if the Auditors were defeated in their current grand scheme. He supposed he could allow himself _some_ pride in his part of that, along with the shame that he bore also. He couldn't rightly even wish that this fate had never happened.

 _Havelock Vetinari_ , he said to himself, staring at his frozen lifetimer, _you_ had _to be here._

 _Yes._

And suddenly he knew what it was that he had to do – which he could not do without help.

Vetinari went in search of Lu-Tze and was not surprised to find him waiting for Vetinari. It had to come down to this after all . . . .

Later, as Vetinari, in another place, watched himself retreat in silence even as he watched himself work on the crossword puzzle and reach a hand to his mug of coffee, he couldn't help but wonder.

"I won't remember this, will I?"

"You won't and you will," Lu-Tze answered inscrutably. "Time is not as most men think."

 _Fortunately._

Well, no one could say Havelock Vetinari wasn't a man who took chances. Gamblonium wasn't one he had ever anticipated though. Relying on something so unreliable wasn't his usual way of doing things. But it was necessary, and it wasn't as if he could assign the task to anyone who might not carry it out as well as he could . . . .

[* * * *]

"Ook!"

The Librarian drew to a halt as he came to what he had expected to find here in L-space. It was there on a shelf, shiny and new and dangerous. All of the Books of Power merited caution, but the newly born and newly reborn especially so. When dealing with a situation like this, the Librarian's arms, long as they were, didn't seem nearly long enough. Cautiously, ooking soothingly, the guardian of the Library of Unseen University made his approach. There would be time to deal with the stack of newly existent playscripts later. For now, he took _this_ book in his orangutan hands and cradled it as a loving parent holds a new baby, giving it the reassurance it needed . . . .

That, after all, was his most important job.

[* * * *]

Mrs. Marietta Cosmopolite looked at the clock and saw that it was five minutes past seven in the morning. She went out to the front stoop to pick up the bottles of milk and cream where she knew she would find them already waiting for her. Those broom-waving, gown-wearing, bothersome buggers she mostly found herself renting to these days would refuse to touch a drop of it of course, but she always fancied a bit of lightening in her tea. She'd be making a nice distressed pudding too, for Mrs. Grubner, since the poor woman had suffered an awful shock the other night that she simply couldn't wait to tell Mrs. Cosmopolite all about. The Landlady shook her head as she saw one of her saffron-robed lodgers looking at her expectantly with what appeared to be a notebook instead of a broom in his hands. Too bad – she'd like to take a broom to _him_ , see if she didn't!

"It's just one blasted thing after another, all right," she sighed. "If it's not this, then it's the next . . . ."

[* * * *]

Nanny Ogg had hardly slept a wink all night! Of course, that had often been the case in her younger days, but she was annoyed at herself for being so worried. Witches, as Esme had so often reminded her, were supposed to _be_ the worry. But if she had to come downstairs to an empty cat basket and a full cat food dish and full cream saucer one more time, why, she'd be almost as beside herself as Miss Level. The first thing she noticed upon entering her kitchen, however, was the smell. It wasn't just a Greebo smell, it was practically a Greebo fug! With a touch of wolf blood and rat blood added too, if her keen nose didn't deceive her. Could it be? Could her precious little kitty-witty have returned? She almost didn't dare to look at the basket, dish and saucer, but . . . . Yes!

"Greebo, you naughty puss-puss! Where have you been? Mummy has been so worried!"

[* * * *]

"Well, Sarge, accordin' to the Captain, it's all over for that lot and there's just the cleaning up to do. Maybe we didn't have to leave Quirm after all."

"Nah, nah, Nobby," Colon shook his head. "I reckon them hearing we was on our way back is why most of those blighters gave up and made a run for it. That's what I reckon. What would this city be doing without us, eh?"

"So you figger the resort only asked us to leave on account of they knew how badly we was needed back here?"

"Just so, Nobby, just so. They should probably award us both medals for returning."

"I reckon you're right, Fred."

[* * * *]

IT IS YOUR CHOICE, YOU KNOW. THE CONDITIONS ARE NOW RIGHT TO GO EITHER WAY.

"Yes, I rather thought it would come down to that," Vetinari said, looking at his body lying on a slab in Unseen University. It was just as he remembered it, if looking, perhaps, just the smallest bit older. There was his game leg, a little bit thinner and crookeder than the healthy one. He'd missed a lot of things during his strange adventure, but the dull ache in one limb had never been one of them. That leg would be even stiffer now for not moving in a while – if it moved again, that is.

ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS? IT WILL NOT BE EASY.

"It never was. None of it ever is. That's the thing about life – it's complicated." His would be even more so, for all the mistakes he had to make up for. Making amends with Dame Weatherwax might be the harshest challenge he had ever faced, but he would rather face that responsibility than shirk it. That was his way. "Yes, my mind is made up."

 _It's not as if it was a permanent condition after all . . . ._

IN THAT CASE, Death said, waving a skeletal hand toward the body as the blue and black sands in an hourglass began to flow once more, DON'T LET ME DETAIN YOU.

[* * * *]

"It is a good vun, yes?"

"Some of your best work, Otto," William de Worde laughed, looking at the image running underneath the day's headline: **Lord Vetinari Returns!** No caption or article could say as much as the calm, smiling visage of Vetinari in the iconograph, seated in front of a row of High Council members who for the most part couldn't hide their misery. Of course, there were one or two other genuinely smiling faces in the background, and the stern frown on Dr. Whiteface that signaled his deep contentment. With their familiar Patrician back in place at the Palace and Lord Snike sleeping with, well . . . not _fishes_ exactly, according to the Watch, life in Ankh-Morpork was starting to resume its usual pattern. There would be some reckonings for the events of the past few weeks, to be sure, and that meant plenty of news stories for the _Times_. He and his staff would have no trouble satisfying the appetite of their printing press – or the reading public – for a long while to come. More important as far as William and Sacharissa were concerned was the day's as yet unpublished headline: **Rocky Returns!**

There were still strands of paper streamer and bits of confetti on the news desks from the party they'd held to welcome back their beloved troll sportswriter after his harrowing stay at the Syb. Even the fastidious dwarves didn't mind. Otto had gained a few more inches in height over the past few days as well. At this rate, he'd be back to his old self in no time.

 _The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret_ , William thought, looking at the stiff, unhappy grins of certain Council members in the iconograph. _But not today . . . ._

[* * * *]

"You Wanted To See Me, Commander?"

"Yes," Sam Vimes said as Pump 19 entered the Cemetary of Small Gods, so reluctant at what he found himself doing that even that simple word took some effort. Vimes didn't want to be here even when the lilacs weren't blooming. It tore him up inside every time he had to look at that one particular set of tombstones he stood in front of now. But there could be no more appropriate place than where he and the golem were standing to take on his current mission. The grave did not seem a fine place to the Commander of the Watch, but he and the others who wore a sprig of lilac on a certain day in May sure had kept it private – _too_ private.

They, the survivors, of the so-called Glorious Day thirty-eight years earlier, had wanted to keep their shared experiences and pain to themselves. They had felt it was their right, their proper way of honoring their dead. Vimes had heard about Sergeant Colon snapping at Corporal Ping for wanting to know what those floral adornments represented and for offering to wear the lilac himself. Ping could be an idiot sometimes, but he had meant well. He had wanted to _understand_ , to learn, to show his respect, and they had slapped him down for it. What a mistake.

 _But you didn't know that then, Sammy Boy, did you?_

"Mr. Pump," Vimes asked, "that thing you did with the commands Lord Vetinari gave you, the ones you can recite exactly in his voice – you can do that with other people too, can't you?"

"Yes, Commander. It Is Very Easy For Me."

Because people had to know what had happened thirty-eight years ago in Ankh-Morpork. Oh, they didn't need to know about the time travel stuff and Vimes' dual role in the city's history. But they _did_ have to know what the city had been like back then, back when it didn't all work, back when citizens could be rounded up like cattle and taken in carts to Cable Street to suffer fates that still gave him and Dr. Lawn nightmares. Too much of the city's history had been forgotten already, or never learned in the first place. As he closed his eyes, Vimes could summon up the shocked faces of Moist and Adora Belle at Scoone Avenue Number One as it had all been explained to them for the very first time. They really hadn't had a clue, because those who could remember it kept the past to themselves, thinking it would never happen again. _No need for a warning._ But the past had tried to reach out and grab them all and crush them in its iron fist. Lord Winder's colors had unfurled in Sator Square, not just decades ago – recently. Unmentionables had terrorized the innocent - recently. A new tyrant had _nearly_ arisen - recently. It wasn't over yet, either. Snike and most of his plans might be gone, but there were still culprits to be found, loose ends to be tied up.

"And other golems can do this too? If I tell you a story, you can repeat it exactly as I tell it to other golems, and they can repeat it and tell it to others the same way?"

"Yes, Commander. If That Is What You Would Like."

Like didn't come into it. This wasn't about Like at all. It was about Necessary. Vimes hoped Fred and Nobby and the others who wore the lilac could understand. Most of them weren't parents like Vimes, but they shouldn't have to be. He hoped the men in these graves would also understand what he was about to do. What he'd be asking of other survivors from that long ago May the 25th.

 _Dai, Ned, Snouty – all of you – I'm sorry, but it can't be just about us any longer. It has to be about them – all the ones who weren't born yet. All the ones who still aren't born. They have to know the truth, because someday someone_ will _try again and we can't make that easy to do . . . ._

The past _had_ to be remembered, like it or not.

"Mr. Pump, I am going to tell you a story and it is a true story. I want you to repeat it exactly as I tell it, to other golems and to other people at least once a year, and to anyone who asks as well, whenever they ask. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Commander."

"Can you ask other golems to do the same?"

"Yes, Commander."

 _Well, then._

"It all began on a day in May when the lilacs were in bloom . . . ."

[* * * *]

Another workday finally over and Moist von Lipwig could look forward to a well-deserved rest back at home on Scoone Avenue. Moist wouldn't mind working for a living if it weren't for the actual labor part. Fixing the whole A.M. Railroad mess was taking an awful lot of that. The one consolation to the business was that Moist and the rest of the city no longer had to wonder about who was in charge of the government. Lord Vetinari had been making certain of that from the moment he had suddenly inhaled and sat up at Unseen University.

Of course, Lord Vetinari was also the man who had Moist by the short hairs, but being held by the short hairs was preferable to being at the end of a rope.

Moist saw another consolation waiting for him in the doorway as he walked up to the front of the house. Spike must have gotten the evening off too – an increasing rarity in their busy lives. He didn't need any goblin potion to feel a complete burst of energy at the sight of her. But she hadn't come out to wait for him, evidently. A delivery man in the blue uniform of Moist's own Postal Service was beating a path back to the street and gave his boss a smart salute as they met and continued in opposite directions. Adora was holding something in size and shape which resembled a small jewelry box. Aside from the stamp and a very small label, it was black on more black, which would indicate that it came from Vetinari himself.3

"A fine thing!" Moist cried, sweeping Adora into his arms. "Our lech of a Patrician trying to seduce my wife with baubles when that's my job!"

They embraced for several minutes before Adora commented that Moist had more than enough jobs already and peered at the tiny label.

"This isn't for me, Moist. It's for you."

"Eh?" Even his agile mind didn't want to think of the possibility of Vetinari attempting to seduce _him_ , and Moist was used to conversing with Igors. Post Office regulations strictly forbid the posting of hazardous objects4, so Moist didn't have a remote clue what the box could actually contain, but he made Adora stand well back as he opened the unexpected package. He sucked his breath in with shock and disbelief as he saw the contents.

"What is it?" she asked, curiosity too piqued not to come forward.

There, on a small patch of cushioning cloth, lay a shiny new Ankh-Morpork Hygeinic Railway commemorative medal.

[* * * *]

GRANDPOPPY, GRAMPS, GRAMPAW – REALLY?

[* * * *]

"That should be the last of them for this morning, Sir," Rufus Drumknott speculated, taking the stack of papers from Lord Vetinari and placing them in one of his customary, carefully coded manila envelopes. Of course, there would still be the afternoon paperwork, the early evening paperwork, and quite possibly late evening paperwork which required the Patrician's urgent attention, to say nothing of a 10-letter word meaning allusion or suspicion. Vetinari already had the intimation he might require some additional thought on that last item.

He had risen bright and early each day and worked almost without cease to make up for the time had been 'lazing around' as one brave, unwise critic now working in the cellars had put it. Truly, a tyrant's work is never done.

"Or a Chairman of the Bank's, Mr. Fusspot?" the Patrician murmured as the little dog at the side of his desk happily chewed his way through another sticky toffee pudding. Vetinari had discovered through the work of one of his resources that the Royal Bank's Glooper machine was once again functioning smoothly, but that the Bank had also suffered a robbery attempt and several pronouncements of the word 'garlic' during his absence. Not that he would accuse Mr. Lipwig of any negligence in the matter since those same sources had indicated that the Vice Chairman had been kept more than sufficiently busy at the time. But Vetinari could not in good conscience leave the Chairman in such a hazardous environment.

Vetinari waited until Drumknott had cleared out of the Oblong Office before he allowed himself to yawn and stretch and stand up stiffly from his desk chair. Odd and unpleasant how the physical body had its needs as the spectral self apparently did not. His lame leg ached ferociously, as he had known it would, but that did not keep him from rising or walking to the window that overlooked Sator Square.5 There, spread out below and around and beyond, he could see before him that city unlike any other on the Disc, the city that he would gladly give his life for and possibly in some senses already had. Ankh-Morpork, the mass of population and pollution with a river so fouled that lead weights would float on its surface, the untrustworthy harlot that took more than it liked to give but gave anyway, the riotous, occasionally explosive and always flammable stack of buildings on top of heaps on top of ruins on top of more heaps, with its noise, its troubles, its smells, its schemes, its inequalities, its pompous fools and treacherous traders, madmen, beggars and brawlers and yes, even sausage inna bun vendors.

How he loved it!

He knew now more than ever that he was not as indispensable as he had occasionally allowed himself to think. The city had suffered a great and terrible crisis in his absence, yes, but it had come through that crisis just fine, and evidently without him. If he were gone tomorrow, the city would still live, it would survive. Other proud men might be depressed by such a thought, but he could not be happier or more buoyed by it. His position had never been about him, after all. _And where there is Death, there is also Life . . . ._

And the world turned toward more mornings.

1 Or what usually remained of it in between rebuildings.

2 Not enough to kill any of them, mind. Frogs make notoriously poor post-mortem communicators and Professor Hix is not fond of animal abuse, but wearing the skull ring gives one a reputation to maintain.

3 Lord Vetinari is known to have singular taste in both his heraldic crest and color schemes, which, it should be noted, can be not only handy in determining the discretion of the viewer but is the exact opposite of the color most often worn by mimes.

4 Which might harm the snails, after all, snail mail not being a purely metaphorical expression in some postal areas.

5 A magical window, of course. It simply would not do to have one that was located on the same place outside the building as on the inside of the building.


End file.
